


my names jim u

by 3six12



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3six12/pseuds/3six12
Summary: Wrong number. Unknown caller. Might as well give it a try.





	1. Chapter 1

The clouds that billowed outside, that had darkened considerably in only a half hours time, brought with them a suffocating humidity. That same humidity drew the moisture from the air, coaxing it back to the clouds it came from. In its want to return home, that trapped in buildings and cars had no other means than to form thickly to the glass of said solid structures. Like the results of the science experiment performed by much of the worlds youth, once the condensation had collected sufficiently, and to such a weight it could no longer be ignored, it ran in uneven and haphazard streams down the glass. It almost appeared as if the entirety of the room was mourning its containment.

That, however, would be entirely illogical. The more logical conclusions to draw would be: that the discrepancy between the temperature inside and the temperature outside was to such an extreme that condensation was allowed to form; and that the humidity in the building, or perhaps just the single room, was of too high of a percentage and would need to be rectified. The more he thought on it, the more he was sure that the fault in his respiratory system was due, if only in part, to the high humidity. He would have to invest in a proper dehumidifier. If, of course, use of such a device was not against any university regulations.

In the time being, he was reduced to drawing ambiguous symbols in the water formed on the window. The glass was cold beneath his finger but not altogether uncomfortable. After having spent the morning in conference with all students assigned to him as part of his advisory duties, he was content to indulge in the highly less productive and slightly illogical action. Although the water continued to bead and eventually slide down the glass, his artwork was still visible and that alone made a small smile tug at his lips.

A quick flash of lightning and the sudden clash of eerie thunder following on its heels drew him out of his thoughts. He had not noticed it had started raining. After further examination, he realized that the sky had indeed opened up and the rain that came down did so in sheets thick and imposing. He did not drive a car. Perhaps he would Uber a driver.

To his left side, his phone came alive on the table. Its insistent buzzing caused it to turn circles until finally falling off the edge. He steepled his hands before his face before going to retrieve his phone. The number was unknown to him, although the area code was the same as his own. Whoever they were, they did not leave a message.

Drawn from his lazy stupor, he drew up his university email and sent an inquiry to the administration help desk as to the regulations regarding dehumidifiers. He knew he would not receive an answer until the next day at the earliest and thus had no further need for his personal laptop. Shutting it down, he placed it gently into his computer bag, along with several papers that he had agreed to proofread.

He had retrieved his coat from the wall and, observing the steady rain outside, pulled the umbrella from beside his door. The Uber driver he had requested sent a text to his phone, signaling his arrival. As he stepped outside, his phone again rang in his pocket, and again from the same unknown number. As expected, they did not leave a message. He did not ignore the unknown caller out of a misplaced sense of superiority or as a means to be rude; he simply did not answer numbers he did not know. He did not see the point. If the unknown caller truly wished to get in contact with him, they would leave a message with their contact information. Otherwise, answering the call would have proven worthless.

The car was clean, if not needlessly cold, and the driver was efficient but possessed a tendency toward small talk that bordered on unreasonable. Short, dismissive answers curbed the drivers desire to “get to know” what to him was a stranger and left the commute to his apartment chilled but short. He lived not far from the university, on university owned apartment buildings mostly rented to graduate students and faculty, with the occasional exception made for undergraduates. Under normal circumstance, he would walk for his commute. The suddenness and intensity of the rain was not normal. He was beginning to expect such out of San Francisco weather.

His mother had warned him that the west coast would not be as temperate and predictable as he was accustomed to. Winter weather consisted of near freezing temperatures overnight, an overcast morning, and a high probability of scattered rain showers throughout the day. Winter on almost any other continent consisted of snow; a phenomenon he had only witnessed twice in his life. He was as yet undecided on if a rainy season was preferable to snow.

He had not yet made it from the car to his apartment door on the third floor when again his phone rang. The same number. Contemplating for a moment if answering the unknown number would be preferable to having said number continue to call, his thumb hovered over the receive button before the chance was taken from him and the ringing stopped. Again no message.

With the slightest of sighs, he opened the door and deposited his keys into the dish beside the entryway. A colleague, for no reason other than to talk, had confessed a tendency to misplace his keys rather frequently. When the suggestion to utilize a designated area for keys was mentioned, the conversation ended. It did not necessarily disturb him that he was ill-equipped to handle informal conversation. His days were busy with work, further pursuit of his degree, and those few spare moments where he dabbled in interests. Although dull by popular standards, his life was altogether fulfilling.

The ding from his pocket alerted him to a notification. Thinking the unknown number had decided to leave a message, he withdrew his phone and unlocked the screen. The fact that he had yet to take off his rain drenched overcoat, and that the chill of the water was beginning to make him shiver, was not lost on him. But when he saw a text message icon in place of a voicemail, curiosity over road the chill.

_Look. Sorry if I pissed u off or something. Not sure what u want from me???_

The syntax of the message was, he had learned, not unusual. He knew it to be called text speech and that it was utilized for its ease of input and the restrictions put on character limit. That being said, a linguist for a mother and a father deeply involved in formal communications had left him with a dislike for all things colloquial and ambiguous concerning language. Including text speech.

Deciding the message was not intended for him, and wishing to avoid an unnecessary conversation, he chose instead to divulge himself of his wet clothes and complete his nightly ablutions. He could admit to himself, privately, that the hot water had not only a calming effect on him, it also helped cleanse him of any tribulations of the day.  
As he towel dried his hair, he looked at his phone again. The green notification light was flashing. Another text. This one shorter and consisting of only one word: Sorry. What did the unknown number have to be sorry for? The content of the previous message was personal and of a matter related most likely to relationships, obviously not meant for a stranger to read. The second message again reiterated that the stranger was sorry. Did the recipient know what the sender had to be sorry for? Or was it the type of sorry that one individual gave to another not when they were actually sorry but instead when they were grabbing blindly at a means to resolution? Given the nature of the conversation, he felt compelled to inform the stranger that the recipient was not who he had intended.

Before he could do so the phone rang again. Steeling himself, he slid his thumb along the green path and brought it to his ear. For a slight moment, he was still. Then he spoke to the stranger in a way he spoke to any who called his number, “This is S’chn T’gai Spock. May I ask who is calling and for whom?”

The other end of the line was silent. He looked at the screen to ascertain that the caller had not disconnected.

“Uhh. Who?” The stranger asked, his voice holding back none of the confusion evident by his question.

“I am S’chn T’gai Spock. You have called my number four times, left no voicemail, and have sent me two texts. I ask again: who is calling and for whom?”

“Oh. Um. I’m calling for Gary. Guessing he’s not there?”

“No one by that name resides here that I am aware of, and if they do I am not acquainted with them.” Though the statistical likelihood suggested that, of the roughly 500 joint residents of the three apartment buildings, at least on individual of the name “Gary” would indeed reside there. Spock felt no need to inform the stranger of this.

For a moment Spock felt sure the conversation would cease, the stranger would desist and he would be allowed to retire undisturbed. When the stranger made a slightly strangled noise, rather of confusion or discomfort was unknown, before starting again with nondescript phrases, Spock resigned himself to that which he consistently failed at: small talk.

“So, uhm,” the stranger began, “you weren’t at Carol’s Place the other night? Didn’t talk to a guy, uh, blue eyes blonde hair. Midwest. Made fun of my accent?”

Spock shifted to the kitchen, drawing from the fridge leftover vegetarian noodles from a frequented Thai restaurant, and placed them in the microwave to warm. Often he would cook for himself, as it provided a means to ensure nutrition and quality while also allowing for the practical application of physics. As a scientist, he found such an application fascinating; as such the lack of other’s perception of use of said application.

“I have visited no establishment with that name. While I have spoken to many individuals who fit that description, albeit I would not “make fun of” another individuals accent, I did not do so yesterday evening, and as I stated obviously did not do so at that establishment.”

“Man, no need to be so formal. Sorry I called the wrong number. Obviously a fake number. Didn’t mean to disturb you or anything.”

“As you have already established that I am not who you wish to speak with, and have derived no enjoyment from speaking with me, I believe this correspondence is over.”

Pulling the phone from his ear, intent upon terminating the call and seeing to his dinner, Spock was halted in his motions by the quick and loud, “Wait! Wait!” issued from the stranger. The stranger. Still he did not know the individuals name.

“Yes?” He asked. He did not sigh, as to sigh would be to show exacerbation and he was attempting to be calm and patient. If the microwave continued to alert him that his food was ready, he would quickly loose his patience.

“Uhm. Nothing. Just, sorry again. Wrong number. Anyway, have a good night.”

With one last look at his phone, the numbers ticking away the seconds as the call continued, Spock felt no particular way about the conversation with the stranger. He was accustomed to having limited contact with others, with lacking casual conversational skills, and stopped concerning himself with others opinions long ago. Unlike the stranger, he did not wish to spend his life bothering over perceived threats.

His night would be quiet, untroubled and undisturbed by outside influences. He would be able to eat his leftover meal, grade the papers assigned to him, and time permitting continue reading the novel recommended to him by the head linguistic professor. He would continue with his normal routine, as he always did.

But still the seconds ticked by, the stranger having not disconnected the call on their end. Spock had not disconnected his end of the call either.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Checking his email proved that the administration help desk had yet to respond to his query as to the proper use of dehumidifiers. Although not unsurprising, given the continued rain and high humidity, it was unfortunate.

All prior visits to San Francisco, or rather the West Coast in general, had not yielded any experiences akin to the ones he had been privy to for the last six and a half months of living permanently in California. The few occasions he had explored the ocean were hot in a way that boarded more closely to temperate, with humidity that was washed away and replaced with fresh air with each pass of the breeze. Mountain trips mimicked the climate he was accustomed to, with sun aplenty.

The first true storm he experienced in his university apartment, after three months of only the occasional light shower, found him fascinated; staying up most the night to watch the flashes of lighting, count the seconds between light and noise, observing the movement of the trees visible by the street lights.

When he awoke that next morning to a continued storm, to the challenge of navigating his trip to work, with the storm not letting up for the remainder of the day, his fascination waned to be replaced by frustration.

Now, the storms had integrated themselves so fully into his daily life that to not have a light shower at least every other day was abnormal and drew his attention more than the storms themselves. When he asked his mother, she had assured him that the storms would pass, that the season would change and he would soon miss the rain. He found that highly unlikely.

A knock at the door drew his attention away from the storms. The student that stood in the door frame would not look at him, holding their books close to their chest. Spock was used to intimidating his students and peers, if not intentionally. Still he tried to soften his features, relax his body language.

“Come in, please. Have a seat.” Spock said, motioning to the seat opposite his. After the student took their seat, pulling from their bag several papers, Spock asked, “How might I help you? I presume it pertains to the laboratory experiment conducted on Wednesday, the 15th?”

“Oh, uh, yes. I apologize. I’m just having a hard time understanding the steps we’re supposed to take. My partner thinks we should take this route,” the student said, pointing at one half of a diagram, indicating beta hemolytic, gram positive bacterium. “But I think we should go this route. I mean, we don’t know all the blood agar results. Because we didn’t test on all the bacteria. For blood agar, I mean. But we didn’t do catalase tests on all the bacteria. So are these the only one’s that’ll be beta hemolytic? Or do we need to look online or something for the other test results?”

Over the course of the student’s rant, Spock’s eyebrow had gradually climbed into his hairline, a character trait that had frequently been pointed out to him as unusual. It often surprised him the lack of coherent communication skills many of the students exhibited.

“No further information will be needed. All that you will be required to know has already been provided to you. I would advise, however, against using the hemolysis tests so early in your determinations. As you have pointed out, of the bacteria available, few hemolysis results are known. However, as you move further down the unknown bacteria flowchart, you should notice that the hemolysis results you have will match to only certain categories. My advice would be to use the hemolysis tests to confirm what should otherwise be your results.”

A chime interrupted his explanation, the one set as his phone notification. He ignored it, in favor of continuing his explanation regarding the relative use in blood agar hemolysis tests, being primarily implemented when medical professionals suspected an infection caused by either GAS or GBS, and not as a standard means of identification via elimination. The student responded eagerly, although their use of improper syntax and fragmented sentences did not cease.

Again his phone chimed. Again he ignored it. The student, however, did not, choosing to glance for a moment at his phone, a look of open confusion on their face. It was well known amongst the student body and faculty staff that Spock did not keep acquaintances beyond that of a twice failed relationship with a woman he still holds in high regard, perhaps his only friend.

His life and habits were a constant fascination for those around him, and he often felt uncomfortably aware of the fact. Their questions were tentatively probing, especially considering the newness of their acquaintance. His foreign status, his mixed heritage, his advanced degree and accomplishments. All known to by people he did not know. Although he did not make causal observations of others a conscious habit, he did find himself watching others all the same and so could understand to some small degree the fascination. Understanding, however, did not equate acceptance.

For instance, the student seated before him had a tendency to constantly fidget their leg, moving it in a pattern regularly upset by stretching their toes upwards. The same student also looked to the clock during lectures, even when little time had actually passed, and was the first to turn in tests. Perhaps if they spent more time on them their test grades would greatly improve.

Though there was not much to look upon in his office (a plant in the window as well as a larger plant in the corner, a photo of his parents, of himself with his only friend, books and other material pertaining to his career, and office related items organized neatly on his desk) still the student found his office fascinating, flicking their eyes swiftly from one thing to the next. They did have the decency of looking startled when they noticed his direct attention on them.

“Should you get that?” The student asked, their chin dipping in the direction of his phone.

“It is of no concern. Do you have any other points of inquiry?”

In lieu of a formal answer the student shook their head in the negative and began packing their things, ignoring to a vastly failed degree the phone flashing green on his desk. With a final thank you, and an apology for any interruptions, the student left.

Spock had always found it odd, the constant need for others to apologize for what was not meant as offensive or rude. His mind instantly thought back to the stranger and the number of times they had apologized for reasons unknown to him.

Turning his attention back to emails, he quickly and effectively responded to those he was able, forwarding some to the proper channels, and giving recommendations to those that he thought would be better answered by others. He took a small amount of pride in his ability to accomplish that which he noticed others had difficulty with. He had yet to fall behind on his grading schedules, had not missed a lecture, and was available during his posted office hours.

The head of his department had gone so far as to congratulate him, an occurrence that had initially caused him some confusion. Although he knew himself to go above and beyond, and to be of a higher standard than the average, he also felt faculty staff at a leading university should not have the difficulties he was under the impression were normal.

When he was first presented the opportunity to work as an assistant professor, while also pursuing his own doctoral degree, he put much consideration into the university and the science departments accomplishments and credentials. He was aware that many would promptly accept such an opportunity, but he was not many nor was he known to do anything without proper considerations.

His mother had encouraged him, as she was so often prone, to “follow his heart.” She assured him that she would be proud of him regardless and would provide support no matter his decision. While she expressed her opinion in favor of his acceptance, she also made it abundantly clear that the decision was his, to such a point that he felt compelled to reassure her that he felt no pressure.

Of the opposite opinion was his father, who strongly urged him, with the same logic he used in his ambassadorial duties, that to not accept would be illogical. His opinion, as he stated it, was rooted in the uniqueness of the opportunity. Not only would Spock be an assistant professor, provided room and board at no cost, and be accepted into his program of choice with full tuition paid; he would be part of a leading and classified study that would be invaluable to his career.

As always, though his opinions were strong and his words and logic not easily bypassed, Spock’s father also recognized the individual he had raised. Not often did his father express his approval of Spock’s decisions as they went against his own advice, but the trend was beginning to turn toward his delayed admittance that, though seemingly flawed at the time, Spock’s decision was sound.

Shutting down his laptop, checking to see that no other students needed his attention, and securely locking his office door, he headed promptly to his first lecture of the day. He would not be late, barring any unforeseen circumstances, and would in fact be the first at the door, as he always was. Setting up the projector and the slides given to him by his supervising professor, he began the lecture on the dot, regardless of the students still walking in the door. Barely one month into the semester aside, they would learn quickly that he made no concessions for tardiness.

After his first lecture, he took lunch in his office. His mother had sent him an email he had been unable to respond to during office hours. Though in truth the email was not worthy of a prompt response. He would never inform his mother of that fact. She had included a link to a video of a performing artist. One, she informed him, she passed daily on her walk to work. She confirmed that she had the consent of the artist to film him and that he was ecstatic at the prospect of someone “half way across the world” viewing his art.

Spock watched the video silently, enjoying his mothers running commentary filled with enthusiastic _oohs_ and _ahhs_ as the artist stretched his abilities to the limits. Some of his earliest memories were of his mother reading to him, enacting unique voices for each character and using inflections to ebb and flow with the story. She once confessed to him that she was generally unaware of her actions. Her passion for linguistics prompted his own. However, his fascination with and ultimate pursuit of scientific logic ultimately won out.

The rest of his day was spent in lectures, labs, his last office hours and in consult with his supervising professor. Unlike the day before, he would be able to walk home without getting unnecessarily wet. He didn’t make a habit of eating outside of the home, as he much preferred to self prepare his meals, but that would mean needing to go to the store. Combine that with the time needed to prep and cook the meal, eating out was the logical solution. He did have an assignment he wished to devote his evening to.

Stepping out into the daylight, he shielded his eyes momentarily. Growing up in the desert gave him the general advantage of tolerating high light with relative ease. Spending a month in the rainy season of a hugely diverse state had stripped that from him. Often he wondered, when the sun was available, if the rays were stronger than those he had grown up with. Illogical.

All around him, the campus was moving with bodies, those going to class or returning home. Fresh faced graduates with backpacks full of books, dressed in casual but acceptable clothes clashed horribly with the bare minimum seniors, dressed in pajamas or clothes of questionable cleanliness.

San Francisco, with all its population, was built on a hill. Or rather, a collection of hills, sharp and abrupt and not conductive to the fast pace lifestyle of one of the leading engineering and business locations of the U.S. By the time he traveled to the small vegan café tucked into a sidewalk, he was pleasantly invigorated.

His order placed and paid for, he accepted the card placer for his order and took a seat at an outdoor table. Within moments his food was brought to him, the waiter paying special attention to making sure there was nothing further he required.

“Spock,” a familiar voice interrupted. “Good to see you again, son. Mind if I join you?”

“Of course not, Christopher. Please, have a seat. I can summon the waiter if you’d like something.”

“No, I’m fine. And it’s Chris, son. How’s your day been?”

Placing his utensils politely on their napkin and wiping his mouth, as he foresaw an extended conversation, Spock nodded. “Very well, Chris. My day has been acceptable. It is agreeable that the rain has abated for today. My assigned lectures are proceeding positively and I find my doctoral classes to be quite engaging and fascinating. May I inquire after you?”

“As formal as always, Mr. Spock. I’m good, thanks. Got a couple classes I’m teaching myself. A few exciting students I’m mentoring, not including yourself. I know it’s just your first month in but how do you feel about your decision to attend?”

“Given that I have not completed my first midterm, let alone my first semester, and that this is my first time lecturing and not being only an assistant, I cannot give any type of estimate as to the soundness of my decision. That being said, I still stand behind the decision. I do find myself anticipating that which will come. For example, I will begin a project for one of my classes that will give me the opportunity to work with samples and equipment that, to date, I have only read about.”

Chris was nodding, a friendly and warm smile spread across his face. His easy acceptance of Spock’s oddities and unusual nature made for a positive and readily enjoyable association. While Chris started as Spock’s advisor, he made a memorable first impression and showed true interest in his work and pursuits. Over time, Spock found himself agreeing to shared lunch times and sought out Chris’s company regularly. Perhaps it was time Spock began to consider Chris a friend as well.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll do great. Your records are outstanding and when I was told I’d be your advisor I was really pleased. You’ll do great things Spock. And as always if you need anything just come to me. How are you and that girl?”

“I presume you are speaking of Nyota Uhura? Despite having ended our pursuit of a possible romantic relationship, we remain close friends. She made mention of wishing to attend an exhibit this weekend: the visiting Oda Nobunaga display at the Japanese Gardens. An interesting time in Japanese history and perhaps the most familiar individual of influence.”

“Good, Spock. I’m glad you have friends. Sure she wouldn’t want me to tell you this but your mom sent me an email, asking how you were doing. Wanted to make sure you weren’t just holed up in your room all day. Good to see you going out.”

“By ‘going out,’ I assume you mean a casual meeting of friends. I apologize for continuing to clarify, but many still assume we are romantically involved.”

“Yes, Spock. Casual. Try not to worry too much about what others think. You’re a foreigner, an oddity, young for your position. People just want to know about you. I’m not saying that’s right but it is what it is.”

At some point, Spock had continued eating. He prided himself on his cleanliness in all aspects of his life. From the way he collected the food on his utensil, to the amount of food collected and the position of the utensil as it approaches his mouth. The exact slope needed to ensure no food fell. The feel of the cold metal in his hand, as it pushes against his sensitive palm. He never let the sour taste of metal linger longer than necessary, yet he was also conscious of pulling the utensil away clean. Frequently he felt he spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating his eating habits, especially when he was eating.

Either way, his ability to eat in the presence of another, with an involved conversation underway, spoke volumes to his comfort with Chris. They talked amicably for some time, well past the time it took for Spock to finish his meal, and over a great many topics. Chris told him of his current “love interest,” as he had termed her, and how she “kept him on his toes.”

As the conversation slowed and eventually halted, Chris lightly slapped the table, grinning at Spock and excusing himself. Spock sat for some moments, watching Chris leave and new patrons take previously vacated seats. Eventually, he continued on his way home.

It wasn’t until he pulled his phone from his pocket, to be plugged into its charger for the night, that he remembered the notifications he had received earlier. It wasn’t like him to so easily forget and for a moment he felt mildly frustrated.

There were three new text notifications from the unknown caller.

_Hey sorry again 4 last night didnt mean to be rude_

_my names jim btw_

_yours?_

 


	3. Chapter 3

By morning, Spock had assumed that he would have formed a response to the short, ill formed text messages he had received from the unknown caller. Instead, he found himself automatically fixing his usual breakfast of oatmeal, orange juice, and a piece of fruit; today being a banana almost past its optimum ripeness. With no school, he ate leisurely, watching the international news and exchange channel, before going on a short walk.

The weather was temperate, requiring no jacket or preemptive measures taken against possible rain. Although he could find no fault in using an umbrella, use of said device was inconvenient, annoying at best. Very few things did Spock find annoying. One step after another his unconscious mind, on an autopilot he always found fascinating, wound his trail up and down hills, through a small park and around in an uneven circle leading home.

At the university, he was conscious of the looks and attention he received. It seemed as if the entire population of the university knew of his existence. He couldn’t avoid them, no matter the attempts he made to keep his life private. Nyota had once commented that, by doing so, he had created the very problem he wished to avoid. She had likened it to a celebrity known for their prowess, known more for their seclusion.

It was pleasing, then, that the occasional greeting aside, he was unaccosted on his walk. The city was always active. Its vibrant people and activities, pulsing to and through, had created the perfect opportunity to observe diversity in its delicate coexistence. A child of two worlds, of mixed heritage, Spock had always felt more at ease with a less homologous group. San Francisco was proving to have more positive characteristics, despite the mercurial weather.

If only he could find a way to get over the sudden bout of indecisiveness and confusion regarding the unknown caller. Under normal circumstances, he would have simply ignored the slight intrusion in his life. While he knew this to be ghosting, a phenomenon many found rude, he was also aware that he owed nothing to the stranger. At present, he could find no reason to engage in any form of relationship with the stranger. He had hoped that the walk would put the events out of his mind, give him time to come to a decision.

That, however, was frustratingly not the case. Instead, he found himself again in his living room, contemplating working on his personal assignment or grading those of other students. Never before had he found himself unable to respond promptly to a situation that should have required so little of his time. In fact, the amount of time he was devoting to this stranger was beginning to trouble him.

He found himself wondering why the stranger and their interest in him weighed so heavily on his mind. Spock had never actively sought out acquaintances with individuals beyond what was traditionally required of him. He did not engage in the stereotypical bar nights nor did he involve himself in activities that would require him to be social beyond the expected norm.

_Hey sorry again 4 last night didnt mean to be rude_

_my names jim btw_

_yours?_

The messages went against all that he typically found within his comfort limits. His fingers hovered over the delete button before moving and typing out an appropriate response, including only the information requested of him.

_My name is Spock._

A thick, dark pad was set up in the corner he used frequently, in fact exclusively, for meditation. Alongside it sat a table with an incense pot, its intricate carvings creating a point of concentration. Set against the black of the metal, a momentary glow was visible against the carvings after lighting the incense cone. It was a time of great personal importance for Spock. It was the beginning of his meditation. He would use those few seconds to center himself, focusing on his breathing, on his pulse.

Pulling an incense cone from their box he set it on the base of the pot, lit it and then replaced the lid. He then sat cross legged before the pot, looking at it upon the floor, watching the warm glow spread and highlight the design carved into the metal. Slowly, his breathing evened; the inhalations filled his lungs consciously, pushing against their barriers in a noticeable but not unpleasant way. The exhalations ghosted over his tongue, over his teeth, drying them and leaving them tingling.

His eyes became increasingly heavy, his limbs weighing down and becoming detached. As he delved further into relaxation, he cleared his mind, focusing instead on the steady tick-tock of the clock on his wall. It’s sound echoed in his ears, pulsing with each tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.

And then a chime. A notification. From his phone. With a shaky breath his mediation was over. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching his face together until he saw white, or where they black, dots in his vision.

He stood slowly, careful not to disturb his meditation pot, and walked to the end table beside his couch, where his phone sat charging. For a moment he watched the phone, waiting for the green light to flash at him. The instant he felt perhaps he had imagined it, the light appeared, fleeting but lasting also an eternity.

He took the phone in hand, falling heavily upon the couch cushions. It was a comfortable couch, chosen in part because of its comfort and in part because its simple, yet practical, design. His mother had helped him choose the couch, as well as much of the furniture in his apartment, when he had first arrived in California. She had made the comment, though he knew it was a poorly conceived joke aimed at men in general, that if he had it his way there would be a bed, a desk, a chair and nothing else. His mother did not believe in the stereotypical portrayals of gender. Instead, she fought against them. But still she made the joke. Spock suspected it was nerves brought about by his moving so far from home.

The light flashed again.

With dawning clarity, Spock realized that he was assuming the notification was from the unknown caller. Yet he should not think of him that way anymore as he was now aware of the mans name. Jim. Jim, however, was still a stranger. No true middle ground could be made. By virtue of having limited conversation and of having never physically met, Jim was still unknown.

There was a possibility the notification was not even a text.

_Nice 2 meet u :) how’s your day been?_

It was a polite question, something you would ask another to start a conversation or show even marginal interest. For the most part, Spock thought it probably just a social norm derived from unknown origins. Either way, it did little to put him at ease.

_It is only 9 in the morning. Nothing significant has occurred._

Spock sat back. Looking over the previous texts, he realized he had missed a major component to an expected response. Quickly he typed and sent an additional text.

_How has your day been so far?_

The next text arrived quickly. They had entered an ongoing, current dialogue. Spock felt his breath hitch, his ears ring, his chest tighten.

_:) good! thnx! it’s the weekend and im being lazy. u doing anything?_

Indecision gripped him. If he confided in this stranger, Jim, that aside from studying and grading, Spock had no pressing plans, he was concerned that Jim would ask to meet him. Yet that was not a given. Jim could just be continuing with the stereotypical conversation pattern.

_I have no obligations outside of those I typically fulfill daily._

_omg man ur so formal I must really annoy u huh?_

_If you find my formality off putting, you need only cease texting me._

Spock had heard the same from many others before. He was too formal, too logical, too unemotional, too robotic. He was too hard to get along with, too hard to actually talk to. He was always too much, always never enough. His mother told him frequently that only those who he needed in his life, would be in his life. She often spoke in riddles, he often didn’t understand her.

Frustration grew in him, morphing into slight anger. When he opened the next text, he expected to be met with confrontation. He was not prepared to fight; he would not fight. But still he found himself gritting his teeth, his brows pulling together in an angry furrow.

_Hey, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude. It’s perfectly fine. Text how you text. So long as ur cool with me txting like a teen :P_

Letting out a breath he had not known he had been holding, Spock smiled slightly. This stranger, this Jim, was proving to be most unusual.

_My apologies. I misread the tone of your text. I have little experience with this form of communication._

_its cool listen I lied I have to go get something from the store forgot yesterday so if I dont reply quick its not cuz I’m ignoring u_

Spock did not know how to respond to the mans confession, so he sat the phone down and retrieved the papers he needed to grade for the evening. He had certain expectations for his students but had found quickly that he needed to lower those expectations for many of them. In the past, as a professor’s assistant, he had not been allowed to grade the content of the paper, only the context. Before, he had graded for spelling, grammar and other general aspects, but not the writing as a whole. Now, he graded it all.

Although the class he was assigned was the lab portion to an introduction to microbiology lecture, he had chosen to have the class write out their procedures and findings in a professional manner. A minimum one-page, single spaced paper was required at the end of each lab assignment. It was not difficult. Three students had not turned in their assignments for this week.

It had been well past an hour before the phone chimed again.

_?_

_I do not understand the significance of your text. What do you question?_

It was some time more until Jim responded. In that time, Spock had moved from grading papers to reading a current publication on the effects of algae derived treatments for otherwise insensitive bacterium.

_Whatcha doin?_

_Reading a newly published medical journal. And yourself?_

_Medical journal? u a doctor?_

Spock smiled slightly. He did not yet have his doctorate degree, and although he was in the program, it held little bearing on his title. He had the urge to make some allusion to it but instead replied succinctly.

_No._

Several hours passed with no further texts. Spock had stopped his work to eat lunch, walk to the library to obtain books he had put on order, and then to the small market for the remaining fresh ingredients to a simple curry.

There were still no new texts as the time approached evening. His mother had sent him no new emails, there was nothing from the university or any of his students. He had accomplished what he had aimed for and it was only 5pm. There was a documentary he had recorded and was interested in watching. He saw no reason not to.

He continued to watch the documentary, a most interesting look into the relationship between fungus and the areas it inhabited, as he moved to the kitchen. He checked his phone but found nothing. Making short order of prepping and preparing the curry, he ate at the couch. It was never in his norm to do so, although on occasion he would humor his mother. On occasion, he had humored Nyota.

The documentary concluded in a way so many often do: with the insistence that more research was needed, with the parting of both knowledge and mystery upon the viewer. It was late but not exceptionally so. By the time Spock finished with the dishes and his shower, it would be time to retire.

Still there was no text.

He stepped from the shower, dried, brushed his teeth and dawned his nightwear. Stretching, raising his hands to the ceiling and pulling himself up on his toes, he let out a yawn forceful enough to pop his ear. He had left his phone charging on the end table beside the couch. As he entered the living room he saw the familiar green light.

_Sorry just fyi gary is a total dick. glad im talking to u instead. night._

_Good night, Jim._


	4. Chapter 4

            Throughout the next day Spock found himself checking his phone periodically. At times he was certain he felt the distinct vibration through his clothing or heard it buzz on the table but each time he checked proved to be disappointing. Admonishing himself, as being disappointed over a previously random event was ridiculous, he turned off the vibration feature. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

            That, however, was a lie. It was Sunday and his schedule consisted of nothing important or pressing. He had graded the majority of the papers the night before and was well enough ahead on his own personal academic assignments that he found it perfectly acceptable to laze about.

            Yet despite the lengths he took to occupy his time (from a jog instead of a run, a self-induced study hour, an extended meditation session followed with yoga accompanied by hypnotic music), he still regularly checked his phone. He felt a certain compulsion to send Jim a text. It would not be inappropriate, he reasoned, given that Jim had initiated random conversation himself.

            When his phone rang, he felt himself hold his breath. His heartrate became tachycardic and he could feel himself getting lightheaded. Spock was often plagued by these symptoms when confronted with a situation outside of his control, although the effect was lessened when he felt otherwise comfortable in his knowledge or abilities. He had shared this unfortunate reaction with no one; as a child he felt it would be used against him to further dampen his ambitions.

            The second he realized the call was from Nyota, he felt the momentary wave of anger and disappointment flood him. It was short lived and in no way reflected upon the fact that it was Nyota that was calling him. He welcomed her call. It was his own lack of self-control, allowing an imaginary situation to overwhelm him, that frustrated him.

            “Hello, Nyota. You are well?”

            There was a slight chuckle on the other end. “Hey, Spock. I’m good thanks. I’m going to assume you are as well. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d like to grab an early dinner, late lunch? I know its sudden, but my plans fell through and I thought of you.”

            “I feel that perhaps I should be disappointed that I am your ‘back up plan.’”

            He could hear her huff of air, a sure sign that she understood his comment for the light-hearted jab that it was. He did not venture into humor too often. His sarcasm was not easily understood by many. It caused too many problems. “Well, my apologizes for trying to include a friend in my life. If anyone, you should confront Gaila. This is the third time she’s done this to me.”

            “Would you prefer I speak with her?”

            “Is that a legitimate offer?”

            Ah. Perhaps his humor had been lost. Or perhaps he was not picking up well on her humor. “It was not, no. If this displeases you, I apologize. It was simply humor.”

            “I’m not that dense, Spock. So dinner, lunch? Thai?”

            “I shall meet you there shortly.”

***

            Spock did not check his phone during his lunch with Nyota. He had left it at his apartment, reasoning that the Thai restaurant was a short walk and to be occupied with a phone while in anothers company was rude.

            His time with Nyota was amicable. Although at times he regretted and deeply felt the loss of their romantic relationship, after the second failed attempt he understood the benefit of, as she called it, ‘remaining friends.’ His mother had informed him that it was better to have her as a friend than to not have her at all. He also found himself in agreeance with Nyota: they were better off friends.

            While he did not particularly enjoy parting with Nyota, in fact he wished for their conversation to continue, he also found himself uncharacteristically excited to return home. He took the stairs, the elevator was unavailable. He did not lock his door behind him.

                                                                        _Hey! I’m a lazy pos party hard slept late bleh you good?_

Spocks initial smile dwindled as he read, and reread, the text attempting to discern exactly what Jim was saying. Punctuation would help, even if the context was not extrapolated upon. At least then Spock would know where one thought began and the previous ended.

_Your speech pattern confuses me. Please clarify: what is ‘pos?’_

_Pos= piece of shit. I got invited to a party late last night._

_Went drank too much and then slept until like noon_

_I see. Thank you. Is this a regular occurrence? Also, I am well._

The time between his sent text and Jim’s response grew. The conversation went from a continued, quick response to a ten-minute lag. Spock worked to actively slow his breathing. He had meant no offence with his question, yet he feared offence had been taken. His wording had been off, that was his mistake. He should not have used the phrase ‘regular occurrence.’ It implied that some judgement was made, that some clinical data was being collected as to his questionable habits. Spock had miscalculated again.

                                                                        _Ha no used 2 be but 2 old now. how old r u? I’m 23_

_I do not consider 23 old by any means. I am 26._

_I feel old_

_***_

Monday passed without a single text from Jim. Spock again contemplated sending the first text but with surprising ease was able to resist. His patience was rewarded with a text sent early the morning of Tuesday.

                                                                        _Hey missed yesterday good morning have a good day_

_Good morning. I wish you a good day as well._

The cafeteria was unnecessarily loud. Although it was a time for eating, and therefore the occupants at large should be focused on eating, Spock found that was hardly the case. How one participant of a conversation was able to hear the other speaker was questionable; how anyone found time to eat was improbable. Adjacent to the main cafeteria was a smaller, notably quieter area for the faculty to dine should they so wish. Often Spock would take his meal in the specially designated area but found he had no desire to currently do so. He wished instead for the distraction of watching the students.

            His need for distraction was derived primarily from his preoccupation with Jim. For instance, he had found himself looking to his phone during lecture. He did not typically leave it on his desk; he had a no phone policy and adhered to said policy with the students. His distraction did not go unnoticed. Perhaps, however, it was a certain level of paranoia that drew the attention of the class. Perhaps they were paying no more attention to him than they normally did. In his childhood he had been distraught by such thoughts when doing something his parents would not have approved of, even if it was something they did not expressly forbid.

            Conversation flowed through the room, at times so quiet as to be conspiratory, at others too loud to be private. The concept of eavesdropping during such instances confused him. If others did not want their conversation pried upon, perhaps they should not speak so boldly.

            The subject of bold conversations lent itself to the dilemma he faced with Jim. While he did not expect a continuous flow of texts, in fact he should not expect a text at all as Jim owed him none of his time, his curiosity for this being had already been stirred. He desired to know more about Jim.

            He was not bold enough to initiate conversation. Tuesday became Wednesday.

   
---  
  
** 

_You had mentioned that you felt old. May I politely inquire as to_

_why you would say that? Statistically, 23 is considered a young adult._

   
  
---  
  
_U evr go thru so much u start 2 think no way has this all happened n_

_only 23 yrs? Like most ppl r jst strtng after college nd not had a million jobs or_

_lived all ovr or been thru so much shit I’ve alwsy tkn care of_

_mself so am a lot older n more mature_

_Sometimes more mature_

_Sorry didn’t mean 2 unload on u just ignore my rant_

_I do not mind your being candid. In fact, I welcome it. Thank you for_

_your honesty. And yes, I do understand what it is like to feel far more_

_mature than peers in ones age group._

_:) thnx! Glad im talkn 2 u_

_I too am gratified to be speaking with you._

            Spock had been initially uncertain about sending a message that would begin a conversation. No messages had been forthcoming from Jim since Tuesday morning. He knew it to be a reciprocal exchange and therefore knew he could not always count on Jim to initiate all conversations. He also knew that the other had a life he was unaware of and a schedule that conceivably was not productive to idle chat. Spock knew the importance of work and applying oneself fully to the task of ones profession. It was commendable and honorable on all levels. To not engage in personal socialization while engaged in professional business was expected. That did not mean that Spock did not wish to be speaking with Jim instead.

            So when Spock typed and immediately sent the message, giving himself no time for uncertainty, he did not feel bold but intrusive.

***

_What do u do?_

_Are you referring to my profession?_

;P _may I politely inquire as to your professional occupation?_

            There was a whit about Jim that Spock greatly enjoyed. Although their dialogue had been limited, Jim was continuously able to read Spock’s attempts at humor and responded unfalteringly. He did not follow through with ill guided conclusions, did not rise in anger or frustration, did not ignore a direct question.

_You may. I am an assistant professor and student._

_Awesome! Where? What do u profess?_

_My apologies but for the sake of privacy I would prefer not to say._

_Should our dialogue continue, I will eventually tell you. I oversee the lab_

_portion of an introduction to microbiology lecture. My studies are in_

_astrophysics, particularly astrobiology._

_No biggie totally cool. Astrobiology? Like et biology?_

            Spock chuckled lightly, glad that his office door was closed. It was Thursday and outside his scheduled office hours. Still.

_Astrobiology is the study of the possibility of life on other planets, with_

_emphasis on the parameters needed for such life and if those parameters_

_are or can be met. May I inquire into your professional life?_

  _u may. Im an i.t. specialist. I work n computer sciences._

_When others fuck the system up, I fix it. Also system securities._

_An interesting profession. I assume you are fluent in a computer_

_programming language? I find them most interesting._

_Oh yeah!!! Python java javascript c# c++ sql php. U?_

_Most accomplished. I had assumed most computer scientists knew_

_only one, perhaps two. I have dabbled in programming but only on a novice basis._

_I’m super awesome! G2g ttyl_

_Got 2 go. Talk 2 u later_

***

            Spock awoke on Friday morning to a notification from Jim. He had become used to wishing each other good morning and good night or to send a text throughout the day asking after the others day, all socially conventional instances. Over the course of the week Spock had grown accustomed to the exchange, marveling at how easy it was becoming.

            So when Spock opened the text and saw a prompt to download an image, he froze. This was not worth it, this overwhelming need to breath oxygen that was not available because he could not control his lungs and the carbon dioxide levels in his alveoli had not yet triggered the respiratory centers of his medulla oblongata and pons and why was he thinking so hard on the process of respiration? If he would only not hold his breath, he would be able to breathe. The pressure would lift, and he would again have the oxygen needed for thought.

_We’ve known each other for a week_

_I sent a pic. Totally work safe_

_Send one back?_

            Spock closed the conversation box without downloading the picture. There was a reason he did not seek out relationships or engage in social situations beyond what was required of him. He was not capable of this. He would never be capable of this.

             

           


	5. Chapter 5

                The familiar smell of hospitals was counterproductive to the principle need for hospitals. It kept people away, even if they desperately needed help. It made them feel nauseous and unsure and itchy. It awoke some deep primal need to get the hell out. Smells were linked to the brain in a way that was almost entirely unconscious. Even if you’ve never had a food before, you can tell if its going to be good by the smell alone.

            The smell of hospitals meant danger, it had always meant danger. It was the universal color red. So for someone who hated hospitals so much, Jim sure spent a lot of time in them. It wasn’t necessarily by choice. At first, it was to repair the IT system; and then again to repair the IT system until he figured out who was fucking up the IT system. Torrenting virus ridden porn. Smart doctor.

            After that, it was a trip to the emergency room because getting an avocado seed out was a hell of a lot harder than it should have been. That was a nice lecture on the principles of how not to be an idiot. Also, on how to appropriately remove an avocado pit.

            His first visit to the UCSF Emergency Room had been well over a year ago. It was the third visit, the avocado trip, that landed him a somewhat unwilling roommate and even more unwilling best friend. Which wasn’t entirely true because you can’t be both a best friend and unwilling.  

            “You still moping about? Don’t you have work today or something?” The voice was gruff but still Jim smiled. He knew the exterior was a show and not always a very good one.

            “Unlike some people I can work from home.”

            “Okay, smartass. Let’s run an ER out of our apartment, see how well that works.”

            Jim turned his head, the plastic covering under the pillowcase crinkling with the movement. He lay prone on an empty hospital bed, away from the main commotion of the ER room. It was early enough that the occupancy was still minimal, and his doctor friend had time enough to keep him company.

            “Be nice to me, I brought food. A salad from that way health food place you like. Looks gross.”

            Taking the proffered bag, his friend sat in the chair by the bed, pulling over the collapsible bed tray. He looked tired, with sunken eyes and a permanent crease between his eyebrows. For a moment he sat hunched over his food before stabbing his salad and raising the bite to his mouth.

            “Plan on watching me eat the whole time?”

            “Someone’s gotta make sure you do. You look tired.”

            “Well my shifts almost over so I’ll be fine.”

            Maybe six more hours wasn’t a long time for anyone other than a doctor. Jim had pulled his phone from his pocket, drawing up the messages. Nothing new. He let out a groan, tapping the side of his phone with his finger. He’d always been an impatient person, but he was trying so hard. Spock seemed skittish and Jim was good at driving away.

            Leonard H. McCoy, doctor extraordinaire, always pushed back. It was the most endearing part about him. Jim knew he’d put up with his bullshit, but at the same time knew he’d call him on it too. It wasn’t a surprise then when he turned and looked at the doctor, only to find him looking back, fork halfway to his mouth, a sour, no nonsense scowl on his face.

            “What!?” Jim exclaimed, thinking back to find if he had done something to deserve such a look.

            “You still hung up on that wrong number dude?”

            “Bones, I’m not hung up on him. I’m just waiting on him to text me back.”

            “Same thing.”

            “Is not the same thing.” Jim mumbled, knowing that doing so would irritate his friend. The scoff from his right drew a smile to his lips. Good old Bones.

            Jim had regaled Leonard with the tale of the tease at the bar, followed shortly by a new tale of a conversation had with a man Jim claimed was just way too proper. The difference in the stories was startling. It wasn’t uncommon for Jim to meet, and occasionally hook up with, a person he had met randomly.

Jim’s sexuality, revealed early and subsequently shot down quickly in their acquaintance, was not a point of contention amongst them. Once Jim knew where Leonard stood in his own sexuality (decidedly cis) and that he was a not-too loud supporter of the LGBTQ community, Jim was determined to turn Leonard into his straight gay best friend. It wasn’t Jims sexuality Leonard had issue with; it was his promiscuity.

In a manner not too dissimilar to the chat he had received in his youth, Leonard had sat Jim down and given him the heart to heart he wondered if Jim had ever had. Jim’s response to some of what Leonard had told him was shocking. Leonard wondered if, and hoped that, Jim was just messing with him.

Jim wasn’t just another patient, he was Leonard’s closest friend. His safety was important to Leonard. So was his happiness. Jim had shown Leonard the entire text exchange; the kid was doing good.

            “Its just, all I did was send him a picture. I’m not ugly am I? Is it weird to send someone a text pic? I just want to know what he looks like. We’ve been talking for a week.”

            “Kid ya ain’t ugly. You said the guys shy, maybe he ain’t so good at takin pictures. Give it time. It’s been what, three days?”

            “Two.” Jim whispered, fiddling with the nail on his left thumb. He brought it to his mouth, nibbling on the hangnail that was forming.

            “Knock that off. You’re gunna get some nasty disease, all growin under your nails. I’ve seen you wash your hands.”

            “Leave me alone, Bones.”

***

            Jim returned to the hospital most ironically to walk Leonard home. Living a ten-minute walk from work was both a blessing and a curse for Leonard. He didn’t have to worry about transportation, even in the rain or snow he could tough it. At the same time, he was almost permanently on call and part of the reserve of numbers first brought in should there be a disaster, or should there be an occurrence where other doctors couldn’t safely come in.

            The cost of living so close to the hospital, and so close to a major division of San Francisco was outlandish. Having a roommate was the only way to make it, even as a doctor. Jim remembered his first few weeks in San Francisco, having to spend them with the man who had convinced him to relocate to the west coast. Said man had failed to mention the sky-high cost of living, right up there with the ever-present skyscrapers and luxury apartments. It was enough, almost, to send Jim crawling back to the Midwest.

             The walk home was uneventful, odd given the bustle of the world around them. So alive with moving bodies and lives Jim could only begin to comprehend, it was in contrast to the small-town world Jim had grown up in. But he wouldn’t complain. He had grown restless there, itching for the unknown and waiting for any prompt to run.

            Their apartment complex was small, the two-bedroom apartment they shared a meager 650 square feet. The Kirk family barn was nearly ten-fold that. They had made it comfortable however, throwing together a ragtag array of secondhand commodities. Aside from anything that couldn’t be thoroughly disinfected of course, including the couch. Leonard was well equipped with personal experience aplenty to scare anyone into the dangers of micro monsters unknown. It didn’t take him much to have Jim dissuaded from getting that awesome plaid, oversized couch he’d eyed on craigslist.

            The walls were bare mostly, aside from a few vibrant watercolors and photos of friends. Along one wall of the living room, catty corner to the double sliding glass doors that led to their private balcony, was an array of plants, all chosen for their hardiness and air purifying effects. On either side of the TV stand, across from the couch, were two bookcases, filled to overflowing with movies, music and other odds and ends.

            Leonard walked in the door, discarded his shoes, and made a bee line for the remote control, calling up a local channel of mindless sitcoms. He sat sprawled, his legs spread wide, his arms crossed over his chest. Jim knew he’d fall asleep like that if he let him.

            Jim checked his phone, sighed, and joined Leonard on the couch. Looking to his friend, he let himself fall until his head met Bones’ shoulder. For his part, Bones didn’t respond, but his head did eventually tilt to lay atop Jim’s.

            “I like him, Bones.”

            “I know, kid. Give it a minute.”

***

            By day three Jim was ready to give in and send another text. Which was ridiculous because it was only day three. He tried to reason that Spock was a student and a professor, a combination that had to be time consuming. Jim remembered how he’d felt being a student at a community college. Only going for his associates had been hard enough. Spock was working toward his … Jim paused in his task. What was Spock working toward? He was 26, so in theory maybe his doctorate.

            Jims face was split with a smile that hurt both sides. That tease. He’d asked if Spock was a doctor. _No_. He hadn’t asked if Spock was working toward a doctorate. Semantics. He thought to ask for clarification, but recalled his last text, still unanswered. Maybe he should apologize again.

            The blaring alarm of the computer he was working on drew his attention to the present. His line of code hadn’t worked. It was the seventh he’d tried, and he was damn well getting close to quitting.

            The picture he had sent Spock was innocent enough. A shot he had taken in his bathroom, fresh from a shower with his hair combed neat and his teeth sparkling. He had a shirt on, even though his face took up much of the shot. He had taken the picture with the sole intent of sending it to Spock. He didn’t want to appear provocative, Spock wasn’t yet a contender for his affection. He did want to appear friendly and easy going. What if he really was ugly?

            Jim almost smashed the computer when the alarm blared again. Damn line of code and damn program that required it. To have it integrated meant it had to be translated, meaning Jim was one of the few that could do it. He had to put all the new code in and take all the old code out and he had to do it all perfectly at once or it wouldn’t work at all. So it wasn’t like he could try to pinpoint where he had made his mistake. For all he knew, the whole thing was fucked.

            Just as he was about to factory reset and try again, a privilege he always made sure he had by first backing up all main files on a remote device, his phone chimed. It didn’t immediately cause concern. It wasn’t unusual for his phone to chime. He worked as a large team and was often sent to work on another project at the drop of a hat.

            When the phone chimed three more times, Jim took notice.

_My apologies for the late reply. I did not know how to continue. I am unaccustomed to such things._

_Thank you for the picture. Here is one of me._

_Also ‘totally work safe.’_

Jim smiled. Spock was gorgeous. His jet black hair, all in perfect order, framed his face and gave him an unearthly appearance. Severe eyebrows, one raised higher than the other, sat above soft eyes of a brown so dark they were almost black. Upon further inspection, however, Jim noticed they were flecked with lighter streaks of amber that caught and held the light. Spocks face was turned slightly, giving Jim a view of his full, just parted lips and the tip of his round, slightly bulbous nose. Jim chuckled. Damn, Spock was gorgeous.

_Hey! Thank u so so much! Good 2 have a face with a name. at work. Ttyl_

_Of course. I hope to speak with you soon. Have a pleasant day._

***

            To say that Leonard was unprepared for the moment he ended up with a very excited, very blonde man in his lap was an understatement. The paper he had been reading on his Kindle was plucked from his fingers, to be replaced with a phone, a picture of a black-haired man on the screen. The hips against his wiggled, bearing down and making themselves more comfortable; legs squeezing his thighs as Jim positioned himself at an angle to see the picture himself.

            “Damnit kid, what are you doin? Quit moving.”

            “Bones!” Jim exclaimed, punching Leonard lightly in the arm. “Look, it’s Spock.”

            “Yeah, I see. Now, will you get off my lap before you start makin things happen. I may not like men but I’m still a man and all this wigglin you’re doin is bound to stir somethin up.”

            Jim chuckled but complied, falling to land beside Leonard on the couch. Taking the phone from his friends grasp, Jim marveled again at the picture. Beside him Leonard groaned, rubbing his hand over his face. God if this kid wasn’t going to be the end of him.


	6. Chapter 6

            From rain was brought life; first through the ground, turning it from hard and impenetrable to soft and forgiving of fragile seedlings; then to the cells, replenishing the water so crucial to life; and finally to the clouds, so that it might all start again. From the oceans was born man, and all other creatures of the world. From water came everything, so omnipotent was its essence. From the beginning of time, water brought forth the deities and gods of so many peoples.

            Yet in its all giving nature it was also all destroying. Hell hath no fury like water manipulated by gravitational and environmental forces. Heat would drive it away, replacing a thriving wetland with barren sand. A tropical island, with all its inhabitants could be destroyed by a passing ocean storm. Worse yet, water was the ultimate bearer of disease; for many, never to be known until far too late.

            At the moment, with the balcony door cracked and a blanket thrown the length of his body, Spock pondered all the workings of water. The name perhaps being the most unusual. The scientific community at large could not come up with a conclusive name. IUPAC often referred to it simply as water. Other names included hydrogen oxide, as well as an alkali name of hydrogen hydroxide, and several acid names such as hydric acid, hydroxic acid, hydroxyl acid, and hydroxilic acid. As well as the controversial dihydrogen monoxide.

            Spock chuckled lightly, bringing the cup of rapidly cooling chamomile tea to his lips.

            His phone rang, although it was not the normal tone it made when he was receiving a call. Pulling it from his pocket, he schooled his features before answering the video call.

            “Hello, Nyota.”

            Nyota looked back to the screen, a smile lighting her face. Spock could see that she wore a thin strapped top, her shoulders bare. The angle of the camera suggested she was resting it against her knees, the picture she had hanging behind her couch clearly visible.

            “Spock. Enjoying the weather? You seem happy, what’s up?”

            “The weather is,” Spock paused, looking out at the steadily pouring rain. “Calming. Prior to your call I had been contemplating water. Scientifically of course.”

            “Of course. You’re such a nerd. How’s your week been?”

            Spock paused again, considering his next course of action. He had found himself confused as to what to do about Jim’s text and request for a return gesture. After his initial overwhelming surprise, Spock thought on it harder. In a traditional conversation, in which two people were face to face, needing to ask for a picture was obviously unnecessary. Such a conversation was no more or less challenging than his current arrangement with Jim. Given social conventions, wanting to know what the other participant of the conversation looked like was only logical.

            “I would seek your counsel on an issue which has brought me much confusion, if you are willing.”

            Nyota responded without pause. “Spock, of course. Whatever you need.”

            “Through circumstances not completely known to me, an individual came into possession of my number. Since that time, he has called me once and we have exchanged messages nearly daily via text until approximately three days ago. At that time he,” Not knowing how to phrase his query precisely, Spock stopped. His brows furrowed together, his mouth thinning.

            “He what, Spock? Oh my god, did he send you a dick pic!?”

            “Nyota, no!” Spock responded, harsher than he had meant to. Relaxing his features, he continued in a calmer tone. “He did, however, send me a picture, only of his face, and asked that I send him one back. As you know, I am not social and struggle with what is considered socially normal. My question is this: is it normal to send a picture to someone who is, ultimately, a stranger?”

            “Hmm. That’s a hard one, Spock. But what makes a stranger? Was I a stranger until we had met and talked so many times? Or does it take a certain amount of time in general? The concept of a stranger is so odd. It seems to be distinguished by dialogue. You’ve had dialogue with this man. Are you comfortable with him?”

            “Comfort is also a complicated state of being. That being said, I do not mind answering any questions he has posed of me. Nor does he take issue with my manner of speak or the way in which I answer his questions.”

            “Oh yeah, your text speak. Definitely leaves something to be desired. So basically, you want to know if it’s okay for you to send a picture back to him?”

            “That is the simplified version of my current problem, yes.”

            “Well, honestly, I think you’ve answered your own question. Don’t give me that look. You enjoy talking to him, you’re comfortable talking to him. And most importantly, he sent you a picture. He’s obviously invested in getting to know you. He put himself out there by sending you a picture first. As far as social conventions go? It would be rude not to send a picture back.”

            “I see. Thank you, Nyota. As always, I appreciate your insight.”

            Their conversation continued for a while after, mainly pertaining to their shared interest in linguistics. A lively back and forth play on words and heated conversation sans the heat brought smiles and chuckles to both. The later it became, the thinner their topics until the conversation died completely.

            It was several more hours still, with the rain not letting up in its relentless pursuit of life, before Spock opened the camera on his phone, changed it to front facing, and began to take pictures. Not the type to take such photos, having only done so at the insistence of others, Spock did not realize it would be so challenging. Chewing his cheek, he chose a picture at random and sent it.

_My apologies for the late reply. I did not know how to continue. I am unaccustomed to such things._

_Thank you for the picture. Here is one of me._

_Also ‘totally work safe.’_

            Watching the sending icon slowly revolve was nerve wracking. Spock clamped down on his cheek, enough force to have him reflexively gasping. With the tip of his tongue, he probed at the new wound with a tentative touch. The flesh was already raw and gaping, but he knew the injury was smaller than it seemed.

            _Hey! Thank u so so much! Good 2 have a face with a name. at work. ttyl_

Spock smiled lightly. He had been doing that a lot lately. He found he did not mind so much.

_Of course. I hope to speak with you soon. Have a pleasant day._

            It was well into the evening before his phone chimed again. Spock had taken an early shower before fixing dinner, reclining once more on the couch to watch another documentary.

            _Hey!!!! U work?_

_It is Sunday. I did not work today, as the university is not open on Sunday’s._

😝 _smartass! Have a good day?_

_I am not sure my posterior can be considered smart. Though it would depend on what definition of smart you intended to employ. My day was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Watching the rain is interesting and relaxing. How was your day?_

_Didn’t know it rained. I work in a cave. Had 2 go in cuz a project got moved up. Stressful_

_That is unfortunate. Do you enjoy your work?_

_Also, do you work in a literal cave?_

_Lol! Ur great. Not a literal cave just in old building basement. Always dark._

_I love my job. Just sometimes its bleh._

_Like when u work on something for hours and its stupid what made it not work._

_Please clarify: what is lol and bleh?_

_Lol = laugh out loud bleh = when somethings mostly not fun, just have to do it_

_I guess. Not really sure there is a real definition for bleh_

_According to the Urban Dictionary, the general consensus defines_

_the definition of bleh as an expression of indifference._

_However, I wonder at the legitimacy of a source such as the Urban Dictionary._

_Dude u r awesome!!!_

_I believe the appropriate response is: thank you, so are you._


	7. Chapter 7

            The week following the exchange of pictures, what might be considered the real start to their friendship, passed far more quickly than Jim had wanted it to. He relished the messages he received from Spock, reading and answering them immediately. The chime of his phone triggered a flutter in the center of his chest, so opposite of the butterflies in his stomach he assumed would happen. He felt like a Pavlovian dog at times. Jumping over Bones as they sat on the couch to retrieve his phone had landed him with a vicious tongue lashing.

            They talked daily, sometimes for hours and often well past the time Jim assumed either of them typically retired. He snuck texts in during work. He tried to keep his showers short and his phone always on him. None of their conversations had been overly serious. Once, though, Spock had shared with him that he had found himself stressed over an upcoming exam. Jim had consoled him the best he could, which really just amounted to pointing out how thoughtful and conscientious he found Spock. How arduous work would pay off and that he should just try his best. All the awkward, stereotypical responses.

            No further private information had been divulged, but Jim also hadn’t really asked for anything. He knew Spock was a student and professor at a university somewhere in San Francisco but was also not a U.S. native. He knew Spock didn’t have a car, tried not to go anywhere that would require him to take the BART or a cab and mostly took a bike or walked.

When he sent the second picture to Spock, of him shortly after waking up and not groomed at all with the caption “And today I want 2 quit,” Spock had quickly responded that doing so would be illogical. After a bit of time, he sent back a picture of himself in a stereotypical professors suit, complete with cardigan and tie.

            From there the pictures flowed more easily. Jim sent him ten in one day, cataloging his usual day at work. From a finally completed project, to lunch, to needing more coffee, and summing it up with the journey home. The BART picture wasn’t his best, it was crowded, and he only noticed the woman giving him a side eye after he’d sent it. Spock did not necessarily respond in kind, but he did send a nondescript picture of what Jim assumed was him at his office desk.

            By the end of the second week, Jim was getting anxious. He wanted to ask to meet Spock but considering the way he had responded to just a picture was not in the least bit reassuring.

            “Bones, I’m serious. Help.” He whined, employing a tactic his friend refused to believe worked.

            “Quit that nonsense, you’re worse than Jo. What’s the problem? You ask him, if he says no, tough shit. If he runs off for a bit, tough shit. If he says yes, problem solved.”     

            “Not helpful.” Jim was abruptly reminded of why he didn’t often go to his friend for this type of help. Leonard wasn’t one to beat around the bush. He was upfront, honest, and only ever said sorry if he actually did something wrong. Very few times had Jim been able to make him apologize for an admittedly accurate misstep.

            “What else do you want? If you keep just sidestepping each other you ain’t ever gunna meet. The way I see it, he ain’t one to make the first move, means you gotta.”

            “I love your accent.”

            Leonard leaned across the table of the coffee house, hand midair as if poised to strike, but instead snapped his fingers. It was a hard sound that drew the attention of more than just Jim. An equally hard stare to the potential eavesdropper ensured their privacy.

            “Pay attention. I’ve known you a long time now. Long enough to know you don’t usually think before you jump. Not sure why this is so different.” In a much softer tone, Leonard continued, his eyes downcast and his hand coming to rest beside Jim’s on the table. “I get it. You’re nervous and you have every right to be. But ain’t it better to live knowing than to live in a lifetime of regret. I’ve got a lot of regret, kid. I wouldn’t wish that on no one.”

            “Yeah, I guess.”

            “Don’t guess. Know.”

            It would be several more days before Jim mustered the courage to ask.

***

_Doing anything fun this weekend?_

_Although the week has just begun, I currently have no plans. And yourself?_

_Eh not really 2 lazy_

***

            If he didn’t hurry he’d be late to the mandatory, early morning, every fucking Wednesday meeting, hosted lovingly in the hottest room of the building, forget it being one of the smallest. He’d have to cram himself into the back and there’s no way he’d be able to make it to the donuts and coffee. They weren’t great, but they were something, a tiny incentive for having to be in a whole hour early. Which meant leaving a whole two hours earlier than usual.

            Just as he entered the building, Jim took a hard left, beelining it for the stairs. If he took the elevator it would be faster, but it would also mean coming face to face with the monster of the office. She’d already propositioned him multiple times, even after he’d told her that the date and subsequent one-night stand was awesome but not really what he wanted. She was the type that could change skin like a chameleon, a house wife one minute, a fun time the next. He was slightly unsettled by it.

            By the time he made it to the meeting, it was nearly over. He didn’t worry over it too much as there’d be an email outlining the contents. There’d also be an email special for him asking in a politely passive aggressive way why he wasn’t there.

            Despite his efforts to stay busy and occupy his mind, Jim was mentally and physically exhausted as he sat down to lunch. The day was dragging, his feet with it. He’d already been scheduled to pull a longer shift to work on a project that had been presented to them with an already impossible due date and an even more impossible list of complications.

            _Hey_

_Hello. I assume you are at work?_

_Lunch. U?_

_The same. Has your day been productive so far?_

_Meh been up since 4 ready for bed. U?_

_I have no complaints. I take it waking at 4am is abnormal?_

_Way abnormal. Try 6_

            Getting his food from the microwave, Jim sat at the farthest table. His spaghetti was still cold in the middle but there were other people in line and he didn’t really care. Maybe the cold would be a shock to his system and wake him up.

He had to do it. He had to steal the resolve and ask to meet Spock. He’d already lost sleep and could feel the gnawing monster in his stomach trying to break out. Never before had he had difficulty asking someone out. He’d always exuded confidence, although at times he didn’t feel he deserved the benefits his charade came with. If he wasn’t confident he wasn’t anything. He hadn’t gotten so far on luck alone and being meek wouldn’t cut it. So he’d gotten real good at being real confident.

_How long have we been talking?_

_Starting at the day you called me, it has been 27 days that we have been communicating._

_Why do you ask?_

_Wanna meet?_

            He’d done it. He’d sent the damn text. And he’d instantly regretted it. It wasn’t timed right, he should have waited or said more to lead up to it. But Spock had asked him a question and Jim had jumped at the opportunity.

_Yes._

            Jim stood quickly from his chair, knocking it off balance and sending it to the floor. He let out a whoop before his hand could cover his mouth, his shoulders hunching with his surprise, eyes impossibly wide. He hadn’t expected a yes. He had expected being ignored or maybe even a cleverly disguised avoidance of the question.

Reclaiming his chair, he sat, a soundless chuckle rocking his frame. He paid no mind to those who turned to watch him as he scrolled through the last few conversations. The remainder of the day passed quickly.

Bones had guessed from his sappy smile that he’d finally done it and had congratulated him with a pat on the shoulder and a fond smile. Jim felt it a bit childish, as if he’d accomplished some great feat and was being awarded a gold star.

_Hello. I assume you are off work._

_I apologize for the late hour as I know you have had a long day._

_I want to inquire as to when you would like to meet and where?_

_Hey so sorry got caught up umm don’t really know._

_Somewhere neutral. Maybe get something 2 eat?_

_That would be acceptable._

_As long as there are vegetarian options, I do not mind where we eat._

_Huh didn’t know u were veggie cool like falafel?_

_An oversight on my part. I enjoy falafel, as well as Mediterranean food in general._

_Cool! This Saturday, noon, Bursa at portal ave?_

_Very well. I will see you then._


	8. Chapter 8

            In hindsight, arriving twenty minutes early to the tiny Mediterranean restaurant was not as productive as Spock had thought it would be. He had meant only to avoid any unforeseeable delays, procure a decent seat, and through doing so calm his nerves. That had not been the desired outcome.

            Already the waitress had visited the table three times, asking after any needs. He had sent her away the last time with a short explanation that he was waiting for an acquaintance. The longer he sat the more the sips of water he took pressed uncomfortably against his bladder. With five minutes to their scheduled meeting time, Spock was both confident in being able to quickly relieve himself and concerned that Jim would arrive early, see that Spock was not there and make assumptions.

            Instead, Spock shifted uncomfortably in his seat, bringing his drink to his lips out of habit before scowling at himself and putting it down. He arranged the plate and cutlery before him self-consciously. He was so caught up in spacing the utensils two finger widths from each other, horizontal to the edge of the table, parallel to the spaces in the weathered wooden board the table was crafted from. He was so caught up in wondering at the cleanliness of the table that he had not noticed when another came to stand before him.

            “Spock?”

            He recognized the voice and because of that he did not look up.

            He had not thought past the implications of meeting Jim, aside from the fact that he would be meeting in person a man he had only known through texts. It had not occurred to him that he would be lacking in the area of small talk, no doubt the majority of what their interaction would consist of. He would have nothing to contribute to the conversation, as he had nothing socially relevant occurring in his life.

            He slowly raised his gaze, focusing on the blinding smile before him. It faltered, withering a bit, lending way to a look of uncertainty that Spock knew he bore himself.

            “Yes, I,” Spock stood, extending his hand, catching himself at the same time as he was not often want to shake anothers hand. “My apologies, yes. Jim?”

            “Yeah, yeah. No biggie man.” Jims hand was large in his, gripping firmly, a soft warmth that Spock somehow expected. “Glad it’s a nice day. I had kind of forgotten that this place was mostly outside. Anyway, how’s your day been?”

            They had both resumed their seats, Spock taking a sip from his water despite the ever-persistent press against his bladder that warned against doing so. Across from him, Jim did the same, drinking down the glass of quickly melting water almost in one go. Some slipped from his lips, falling down his chin and landing in the v of his shirt.

            The waitress returned, notepad at the ready, anxious to take any orders. Spock had had ample time to look over the menu and knew already what he wanted. Jim, however, did not and so they sent the waitress away again, much to her obvious chagrin.

            With the loss of the waitress, focus was once more put on the two relative strangers. Spock very much wished to take a sip of water, his hands itched with the need to occupy them. He also very much needed to use the restroom, his physiologic processes mounting to a most uncomfortable level. Still, Spock remained firmly seated.

            “How has your week been? School and all?” Jim had placed his folded arms on the table, leaning on its surface toward Spock, smile lopsided on his face. “I know its cliché but.”

            “They have been well, thank you. My duties as assistant professor are providing opportunities that I am finding to be especially fulfilling and challenging. As are the current topics under consideration in the classes I am taking.”

            “Wow. Sounds interesting. Like you’ve got your hands full too. I did okay in school and I love learning but I’m kinda glad it’s over. You sound like maybe you’ll always be a perpetual student, huh?”

            Spock nodded. “Yes. I currently hold an associates and bachelors degree that at some point I will advance upon. At moment, my focus is in completing my doctorates in astrobiology.”

            Jim chuckled, his shoulders shaking heartily with the noise. “A doctorate! Spock that’s fantastic. I kinda figured that’s what you were going for. Two years, huh?”

            “That is the expected time, yes. Some people, however, complete their doctorates later, depending on if their thesis is accepted. I apologize, but I’ve failed to ask after how you have been.”

            “Oh, its okay. I tend to talk too much anyways. But I’ve been good, thanks. I’ve been working some crazy hours the last week working on a project that wasn’t really all that well thought out in the initial phases so now we get to play run around. Like always. So it’s been really nice to have a day off and do something fun, with someone fun.”

            Although he often thought of himself as oblivious and awkward where social interactions were concerned, he also knew Jim’s statement to be a compliment. He had worried that perhaps Jim did not wish to meet him but did so to fulfill a social convention. Hearing that Jim was pleased to be with him brought a small smile to his lips.

            “You have a cute smile.” Jim had pulled himself closer, his head down, eyes peering up, hands so close to where Spock’s sat folded on the table. One of his fingers reached out, tapping lightly by Spock’s knuckles. Slowly, Jim pulled back, sitting back comfortably. “Cute.”

            At this Spock did not know how to reciprocate. Instead, he took another drink of water. Regret instantly pushed at his bladder and he pulled a face. So did Jim. “You okay?” He asked.

            “Yes, however I would ask to use the restroom. I have consumed too much water.” Peering about, Spock could not immediately see the signs. “Do you know where the restrooms are?”

            “Yeah, in the building, straight back. Pretty obvious.”

            Jim watched as Spock retreated inside. He wasn’t overly concerned about Spock ditching him. There was only one entrance into the building, only one exit, and Spock wouldn’t be able to pass Jim unseen. Not that Jim was trying to be creepy. He just saw Spock as a bit of a flight risk.

            Jim didn’t miss the fact that Spock had avoided his compliment. Perhaps it had been too soon. Jim had always prided himself on his ability to flirt casually, to which most people at least responded. He was a bit out of his element when one of his interests didn’t respond. But he had to ask himself: was Spock an interest?

            They had conversed at length and Jim had spent a great deal of time in getting to know Spock, in getting Spock to open up and in learning that he and Spock had a long list of combined interests. He jumped at the opportunity to talk with Spock, whenever those happened to arise. In fact, talking with Spock was usually the highlight of his day. So maybe Spock was an interest but the question remained if Spock thought the same way.

            The waitress, noticing that once again one of her patrons was missing, gave a visible sigh. Jim chuckled lightly, waving. It wasn’t long before Spock returned, and Jim waved the waitress over. She seemed exceptionally pleased, jotting down the two falafel meals and potato dishes with flourish.

            “You said once that you had a mountain bike that you’d take out every now and then. When was the last time you did that?”

            “It has been approximately two months. I last took my bike to Mount Diablo, which of course required a long trip on the BART.”

            “Of course.” Jim nodded sagely, a wide smile splitting his face almost painfully.

            “Indeed. I received a great many odd looks. Others on the BART had bikes and I kept mine out of the way. Regardless, it was an enjoyable trip. I was actually fortunate enough to have encounters with some local wildlife.”

            “Oh? Good ones I hope.”

            Retrieving his phone from his rear pocket, Spock called up the photos of that trip, showing Jim the large tarantula; the far off bobcat; the red-tailed hawk, tail feathers spread wide and gaze locked directly on the camera. There was also a brief glimpse of a selfie – Spock on his bike with the camera at arm’s length, sweat visible above his slight smile.

            As expected, Spock pulled the phone back, wrapping his hands around it protectively. He was vulnerable, that much Jim had already realized. What he didn’t know was why. The more he thought about it, and he was loathe to admit he thought about it a lot, the more he almost didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, whoever had hurt him, had done so to the point that Spock didn’t often make eye contact. His voice was soft. His expressions were restrained. His body posture was guarded. It didn’t take long at all for Jim to notice this.

            To keep him occupied, Jim turned the conversation to the outdoors, something both of them seemed to have a mutual love for. Spock spoke at length of his fondest childhood memories: exploring the depths of the wild world around him in whatever country his parents ventured to. He spoke of the caves he would find in the rainforest or the oasis in the desert. He spoke of the first time he had been knees deep in snow, of how it crept up his spine and infiltrated his senses.

            He listened raptly as Jim told of his own adventures, albeit vastly more mild as Jim had lived his entire life in Riverside, Iowa. Town of corn, cows, head nods and greetings so odd Spock asked for clarification. So, Jim laughed his way through attempting to explain how one would greet another on an old country road. One hand on the steering wheel, pointer and middle finger raised by one person to be reciprocated by the other. The laughter only escaladed as Spock insisted on practicing. Which is exactly how the waitress found them. Once again, Spock closed down.

            Looking at the round, brown patties on his plate, sandwiched between the folds of a warm, thick pita and Tahini sauce, Jim admitted painfully that he had never tried such food. When Bones had duped him into coming here the first time, he ordered cauliflower fries covered in some piquant yogurt sauce and a seasonal salad but only because he knew the ingredients. Now, he took his cues from Spock on how to go about eating his meal.

            Halfway through, he was so very happy to have ordered the same as his ... He still didn’t know what to call Spock. Could they be considered friends? Or on the way to becoming friends. Perhaps this was a date, as Jim could see himself calling it. But a date was only a date if both agreed that it was a date. During his wandering mind, Jim had locked eyes intently with Spock. Jim gave him a quick smile, hoping to disarm any trepidation his stare may have caused Spock.

            “How do you find your food?” Spock asked.

            “So good. Really. I could probably eat this every day.”

            “I was under the impression that you have eaten here before?”

            Laughing, Jim took a long sip of his water, clearing his mouth before popping in a faux fry. “Yeah but I didn’t get this. Honestly,” he whispered. Leaning into Spock conspiratorially, he was greatly pleased when Spock reciprocated. “Falafel was the only thing I knew to be completely vegetarian.”

            “Ah. If it is my diet you are concerned about, perhaps next time we can visit an establishment called _Veggie Grill._ They specialize in vegan and vegetarian fare, especially meat-less, substitute products. I was quite pleased to learn of so many in the area.”

            Spock took a sip of his water. He had gone through three glasses and as many trips to the restroom.

            “Also, I appreciate your consideration of my dietary needs. Many do not and while I pride myself in my ability to forage, I would prefer not to.”

            “Forage? Dude, you’re so cute.”

            Spock did not fumble. He smiled.

            “So what do you say we take a walk? I’m not so good at sitting still for so long.”

            “Of course.”

            They walked for some time. Jim took any excuse he could find to bump shoulders with Spock or thump him kindly on the arm. He even laid his hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Spock did not respond in kind, but he also did not retreat. Jim was tactile, handsy and expressed himself physically as well as verbally. Spock was so unused to Jim and his habits but found himself not too disquieted or uncomfortable.

            Winding around the block, Spock noted that it was their fourth go around. They had talked for hours, well past either of them being done with their food, Spock’s tea having long gone cold. It was immensely pleasing, to be so caught up in conversation that Spock could forget his social unease and give his attention to Jim and his complexity.

            They had walked and talked and gotten so close that when the evening lights came on and the cold breeze of night hit Spock’s bare throat, he was mildly surprised.

            “Wow, I can’t believe how late its gotten. Honestly, I was a bit scared we wouldn’t have much to talk about. I’m really glad we were able to get along so well, Spock. Really, I am.”

            “As am I. In all honesty, it is not often that I am comfortable socially, especially around one that is essentially a stranger. Our interests and commonalities seem to be enough to sustain conversation even past the simplicity of exchanging text messages.”

            “I know you said its because English wasn’t your first language, and I don’t mean any offense, but your sentence syntax is amazing. I’d love to play scrabble with you sometime.”

            “I would enjoy that as well.”

            For some time they sat in uncomfortable silence, the first of its kind since the evening began. Jim rocked back and forth on his feet, shoving his hands in his pockets.

            “So,” Jim began.

            “If it,” Spock mumbled at the same time.

            “Ha. Sorry, go on.”

            “No, I insist. You first.”

            “Okay, so, um,” Jim pursed his lips, flicking his tongue over his teeth. “So I don’t know if this is what you’re looking for, if it’s what I’m looking for, but I really enjoyed my time with you tonight. I’d like to think of it as a date. Can I do that? Can I kiss you goodbye?”

            “Yes,” it was barely a breathe and Spock was concerned that Jim wouldn’t hear him.

            Regardless, Jim closed the space delicately, slow, giving Spock an out if he needed it. Jim closed the space completely and pressed his lips against Spock’s. It was gentle, far gentler than Spock thought kissing another man would be. It was soft and warm and very much unlike the kisses he had shared with Nyota. Parting his lips, Jim gave Spock time to decide if he wanted to follow. And when Spock felt Jim’s tongue touch at his parted lips, he felt as if all the oxygen from all of his cells had simultaneously departed from his body. He felt light headed and dizzy, warm all over. He hadn’t noticed when he grabbed Jim’s shoulders for support, or when he had moved his lips against Jim, taking a bit of command he didn’t know he could have.

            When they parted, they stood there, breath coming in warm pants against each other’s teeth. Jim rested his forehead against Spocks, leaning in to steal a quick kiss, to capture Spocks lips once more. Before long, the short back and forth kisses turned into something more, something deeper, something with longing and desire. 

            Finally, Jim closed all the space between them, enveloping Spock in a warm, solid embrace. Spock was only slightly taller than Jim, slightly thinner, but still they fit so well together. Spock put his hand first tentatively against Jims shoulders before running then up to hold him at his trapezius.

            “It’s getting cold.” Jims voice against his neck made Spock shiver.

            “Indeed.”

            “I’d love to stay like this all night, but I have to work in the morning.”

            “Indeed.”

            Jim chuckled. “Indeed. But I’d love to see you again and I should be able to text a lot tomorrow.”

            Pulling away, Spock nodded, once more at a loss for words.

            “You okay?”

            “Yes, yes I am okay. It is just,” Spock paused, smiling before he continued. “It is just an unexpected surprise.”

            “Yeah, a good one. I gotta go. But I want another kiss.”

            “Yes.”


	9. Chapter 9

            The week following their first date found them both incredibly busy. The project Jim was working on took a turn for the worse, leading to long nights, early mornings and a piss poor attitude. He felt as if he was hardly at home and when he was, he was either snapping at Bones, scarfing down food – which Bones snapped at him for – or sleeping. He couldn’t remember the last time he took an actual shower and not just a sanitary wipe down. Which of course made him all that more pissy, as there was little in life Jim loved more than a long, scalding soak.

            Negative attitude aside, Spock wasn’t fairing much better. He had agreed to overtime in the lab, taking up hours for a fellow student who had come down sick. The added hours, on top of his already loaded schedule, were difficult to handle. He could feel the toll it was taking on his body. Although it was highly illogical, Spock felt as if the days were longer, the week dragging; while not having enough time in the day to complete all the tasks.

            Yet still they were able to message each other. Their lunch hours often coincided, although they both found the hour knocked down to thirty minutes. Either way they filled it with jokes, well wishes and a touch more flirting than either of them had ever done before. Even if the flirting was of a much different nature than Jim was used to. Getting used to Spock speak, and translating it into Jim lingo was becoming one of Jim’s favorite past times.

_Your eyes are a most mesmerizing blue._

_So light I did not notice it at first._

_Thanks_

_Yours are amazing too_

_I got lost in them a lot_

_Perhaps you would benefit from a map._

_Wait. U arnt going to send me a diagram of an eye r u?_

_No …_

_O!M!G! U USED … SARCASM!!1_

_And you have used all caps._

_:D_

                From day one of their flirting, it all seemed to come naturally. Jim didn’t have to think about what he was saying or who he was saying it to. Spock didn’t seem to pull away or be bothered by the messages. Either the slightly detached nature of text messaging or the fact that Spock was given time to reply without the constraints of being face to face, were helping in his ability to open up to Jim. Or perhaps it was because they had met in person, allowing Spock to see all of Jims obvious interest and sincerity.

            Either way, Spock was opening up and Jim was loving what he was learning. He loved the shy kid Spock was in school, the same one that beat the shit out of a kid for calling his mom a whore. Jim laughed with Spock when he regaled the harrowing tale of getting lost in New York City for a day, the subway system so different from what he was accustomed to. He encouraged Spock to get some plants for his apartment and offered to introduce him to his botanist friend, Hikaru Sulu. Jim encouraged Spock even more when he spoke briefly, lightly, very skeptically about perhaps, maybe, someday adopting a cat. Spock had a cat when he was child; his father’s cat that Spock grew up with, that lived to be a very ripe 22. Spock spoke no further on the cat, on I’Chaya and Jim didn’t push.

            The conversation went both ways, Spock actively getting to know Jim, asking questions, leading and prompting like he had yet to do before. He wanted to know more about Jim’s work, about how he started in the career. He didn’t judge when Jim told him of his mildly delinquent past. Jim laughed about all the stupid things he had done in his youth. Then laughed more when he realized his youth wasn’t all that long ago. Laughter over text was more that Spock had to learn, from lol, lmfas, and smiley emojis with tears coming out of their eyes. Spock may have been fluent in five languages, but he wasn’t so fluent in text laughing.

            It was the fifth night, a Thursday and a very rare lull in the chaos that was their week, that Jim got up the courage to video message Spock. So close to hanging up and then all of a sudden there was Spock, hair wet, cheeks flushed and mouth slightly parted.

            For a moment they both sat silent.

            “Hey,” Jim said.

            “Hello.”

            “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting. Or that you’re busy,” Jim hastily added. “Have time to talk?”

            “Yes, indeed. I just got out of the shower, please excuse my state.”

            “Hey man no problem. I was worried maybe I’d be keeping you up late. I know you said your weeks been crazy.”

            Spock nodded, looking off screen before bringing a piece of toast to take a bite. Some of the jelly fell off and Spock heaved a heavy sigh.

            Jim laughed lightly, covering his stray mouth with an apologetic hand. “Sorry. Please tell me that’s not dinner?”

            “Part of it, yes. Fortunately, there are plenty of quick, microwaveable vegetables. Not my first option but they are convenient and still nutritional. This is a, ah, self-indulgent dessert of sorts.”

            “Well hell, my self-indulgent desserts are the whole damn pie.” Jim laughed heartily. It pleased Spock greatly.

            Another pause overtook them, a comfortable one that Spock used to eat the remainder of his toast. Spock could tell that Jim was doing something, his mouth slightly open, eyes crinkled in concentration. Before long, music, soft and distant in the background, pricked at Spock’s ears and he strained to listen.

            “What is the music you are listening to?”

            “Sublime, baby! Heard of em?” Jim was smiling, bobbing and weaving his head with the music, mouthing some lyrics at Spock. All charm and charism and something that made Spock slightly uncomfortable. He turned the music up. A look of pure joy overtook his face.

            “I have not, no. My mother listened to the music of the 1980’s and 1990’s as well as a select playlist from the early 2000’s. Now, she is primarily interested in modern, alternative music or that from the early 1900s. That is what I am most familiar with.”

            “Oh yeah? Have a favorite artist?”

            “From the more modern artists, Imagine Dragons. From the older artists, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Blue October, Alanis Morrisette, Jewel. There are more that I enjoy, those are simply the first that come to mind.”

            “That’s amazing, Spock! Honestly, I pegged you for more of a classical kind of guy.”

            “I do enjoy classical music. I play the violin, piano, and guitar.”

            Jim jumped at that. His smile grew past the realm of anything Spock had witnessed before, regardless of the few times he had witnessed said smile. “Holy shit, we have to jam together sometime. I play the guitar and the saxophone. I kill it on the saxophone! It’ll be so fun, you down?”

            “Yes, I suppose I am down.”

            “Spock,” Jim all but whispered. “You’re amazing.”

            Jim noticed the stutter in Spock’s response time but said nothing, using patience to prompt him. “Thank you. I find that I agree. I meant to say that I too find you amazing.”

            “It’s all good, Spock. I got you. Listen, we should really get to bed but I’d love to do this again. Maybe if we aren’t dead to the world we can get together this weekend?”

            “I would find that agreeable.”

            “Night, Spock.”

            “Good night, Jim.”

            Friday came and went. So did Saturday. So did Sunday. And unfortunately both of them were dead to the world. Spock spent all day Saturday and most of Sunday to catch up on course work he had allowed himself to get behind on. Jim spent the time sleeping and doing some of the chores. Their tiny apartment, because Bone was busy too, took on the chaos that occasionally it was allowed to as neither of its inhabitants had the will to do anything about it. And they were both just fine with it.

            Jim’s project was over and he took a week to work from home, a leisurely pace and work that he got to choose, work that he enjoyed. Spock was back to his normal workload, a manageable amount he had taken for granted before. They both exchanged messages over the weekend, speaking on the phone once – talking each other to sleep – and chatting via video twice – Jim gladly woke from his nap for one of them.

            They played their first match of phone tag the first of the week, three weeks after their first date. Texting was so spaced apart that it was a fruitless effort, mostly just “Hey, how are you?”s and “Well, thank you, yourself?” Jim called Spock once when he was in class and another time when he was in the shower, both times Spock hadn’t noticed until far too late to call back. When he did attempt to call back, Jim was in a meeting and was harshly rebuked for not having his phone on silent.

            When they finally did connect, it was as if they hadn’t spent nearly two whole weeks without any actual conversation. They spoke well into the night, seemingly about nothing and everything all at once.

            “So then, Mike, who’s got shit for brains, decides it’s a good idea to tell the client to just do it themselves if they didn’t like how we were doing. Which, don’t get me wrong, I’ve thought before but never been dumb enough to actually say.”

            “I assume the employee was reprimanded, if not let go immediately?”

            “Oh, yeah, he’s a dead man. He won’t be getting any recommendations from anyone. Really bit the bullet with that one.”

            “Such colorful vernacular.”

            “Yeah, yeah, smarty pants. I can be as articulate as the next, when I so choose to be. I do not so choose. How’s school?”

            “School is pleasing, both as a student and as a professor. I am glad that my schedule has returned to a more normal and consistent manner. While I enjoyed the opportunity to work on the other project, I find my time better spent on my original pursuits.”

            “Same. I took a week off work to do some easy programming and I loved it. Kind of makes me want to try going freelance.”

            “Is that an endeavor that you believe you will pursue?”

            “I mean, maybe eventually. It’s hard right now. I’m still kinda new to all of this and even though I know my own salt, others don’t and I don’t have the client book to do any real work. Not like I can expect to work without anyone to work for.”

            Jim could hear Spock mumble a confused, “Know your own salt?” but elected not to comment on it. Spock continued louder, “It is an admirable endeavor and I encourage you to work toward it. You are insightful and independent, I have no doubt it will work out in your favor.”

            “You’ve said ‘endeavor’ twice in like ten minutes.”

            Spock was silent on the other end.

            “Endeavor,” Jim whispered, a soft laugh coming through shortly after.

            “Jim, you are not near as tactful as you would like to think. Endeavor is a fine word.”

            “Indeed, endeavor is indeed a fine word.”

            “Should you wish to be insulting,”

            “No, Spock. No, I’m sorry. I was just teasing you. I’m sorry.”

            Spock was again silent. His response was even, although his tone was a touch confused. “I know. Obviously I need to work on conveying sarcasm on my end, as I am apparently lacking in that area.”

            “Spock.” Jim drew his name out, tasting all the syllables and loving them.

            “Yes, I know, I am amazing.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love sucks. It probably isn't real. But don't worry. I won't abandon this story.

            Jim was frozen, overwhelmed by the mass amount of choices displayed before him, some with names he couldn’t get his mouth to work around, others with descriptions that didn’t describe any food Jim would ever consider putting in his mouth. He expected vegetarian. He didn’t expect to find absolutely nothing on the menu that he had eaten before. Well, macaroni and cheese but the cheese wasn’t really cheese so that didn’t really count.

            “So you said once that you like Veggie Grill. You free this weekend? We could go out and get something to eat, maybe go see a movie? After three weeks of chaos, I’d love to chill with you.”

            “That would be most agreeable.”

            Thus, Jim found himself struck before a menu so foreign it may as well have been written in a different language. Jim did not normally find himself so at a loss; he was rash and quick to make decisions just as rash. Not so much this time.

            Spock seemed to notice this.

            “If you will trust me, I would order for you?”

            “Yeah, please.”

            Spock chose well, including sharables that gave Jim a vast taste variety and a burger that bled, much to his obvious surprise. His smiles and laughs did not bother Spock near as much anymore. They were a life and presence that added so much to all around them. People were drawn to his light in a way that Spock did not possess, although he found that he did not mind. To watch the interactions was an anthropological process that Spock found his eager scientific mind actively seeking out. He more often than not was just as interested in the person that Jim was interacting with as he was interested in Jim himself.

            They sat across from each other, Jims leg pressed against his, Jim’s hand touching his whenever they both reached out to take from the shared appetizers. They made idle conversation. From one conversation to the next, one topic to another, Jim was enthusiastic and open, encouraging of Spock while being accepting of his calm nature.

            Jim was tactile, perhaps a bit more than Spock had expected after only knowing each other for a few months, especially considering they had only met once prior. Spock had greatly enjoyed their first kiss, their first date. He had marveled in the newness of it all, as his experience was limited to only one other person and that person had been decidedly female. This, he was a touch loathe to admit – as he knew admitting it aloud would cause some issues – was something he looked at scientifically. He had a tendency to look at everything scientifically.

            The more he looked around, at the other people in the restaurant and their goings-on, the more he realized how normal his being with Jim was. Unless they spied closer than was socially acceptable, an outsider would know nothing more than what was obvious. This went a great length to calm Spock.

            “It’s been three weeks.”

            Spock was broken from his reverie by Jim’s declaration.

            “I suppose it has, as time does pass so that one point is always a relevant distance away from a previous point. What, however, is the three weeks a point relevant to?”

            Jim smiled, reaching out to touch Spock’s hand for no other reason than because he could. “Since our first date.”

            “Yes, it has been. Much has happened in that time.”

            “Indeed.”

            “Jim.” Spock warned, his head cocking to the side, eyebrow raising dangerously.

            Jim had first noticed Spock’s penchant to raise his eyebrow the second time they had video chatted. They had been discussing a documentary that Spock had suggested Jim watch, about a forest that had developed unhindered and completely unknown to the outside world, deep in the belly of a cave with what appeared to be a single entrance. Jim had suggested that, perhaps, other entrances existed the world over, where creatures of lore would escape to. He had suggested that the existence of said entrances would explain how the creatures seemed able to come and go at will. It was the first time Jim had noticed the eyebrow.

            Jim had many such theories. Spock was pleased to learn this as it added a deeper level of complexity to their conversation. The discussions stemming from the theories were both scientific and entertaining. Spock had previously yet to see where the two could come together. Meeting Jim was all about new experiences.

            “I won’t. I’m being good. Promise. I’ve picked up a couple words since knowing you. Pidgin, right?”

            Nodding, Spock took a drink of water before answering. “Although not quite, as you know what the word means and you are technically using it correctly, should you wish to think you are speaking in pidgin English, I would be reluctant to stop you.”   

            Jim chuckled around his food. “So did you speak pidgin when you first learned English?”

            “As I learned English alongside my native language, I am not sure. That said, the concept of pidgin is well documented in those who are learning another language and is often thought of as the first stage in learning a new language.”

            “I like listening to you talk. You know so much, about so much.”

            “Given the amount of time I have spent in school, one would hope that I know a great many facts on a great many topics.”

            “One would hope.”

            “Jim.”

            “Yup.” They had each cleared their plates, the appetizers gone, and had spent the last several minutes absorbed in each other. “Movie starts in about 15 minutes. It doesn’t take long to get there but we should head over.”

            The movie theater was a short walk from the restaurant, as most things in San Francisco were short walks from each other. As he did the first time they had walked together, Jim used each avenue he was given to brush against Spock. When he reached for Spock’s hand, Spock felt a small amount of shame at pulling away, tucking his hands behind his back and hanging his head. Jim was not deterred, turning back to bumping shoulders and sticking close.

            Spock had never been comfortable with close contact and had himself a very small amount of personal space, a bubble as others would call it. When encroached upon, Spock would naturally go to alleviate the situation, putting the amount of distance he required between himself and those who would attempt to close that distance.

            That he did not do so with Jim did not go unnoticed by him. He doubt it went unnoticed by Jim, who seemed particularly attuned to the wants and needs of others. Jim was a people person, as Spock’s mother would say and Spock was never so thankful to his mother than he was at that moment, as it was she who taught him all he would need to know about such people. She, herself, was one such person.

            Jim covered the cost of the tickets, as he had covered the cost of the food, and led them confidently to their seats, plush ones that reclined.

            The movie was partially over, much to Spock’s relief, when Jim shifted in his seat, coming closer to Spock.

            As casually as he knew how to, Jim rested his hand next to Spock’s on the arm rest between them. When Spock did not move, Jim was made bold by his ease, moving his little finger to probe gently at Spock’s. Testing the water, he ran his finger first down and then back up, along the slope of Spock’s oh so slender digit, so opposite of his own short, broad fingers. He then slid his finger up and over and in between, until it was nestled between Spock’s fourth and fifth, and then his next and so forth until their hands were slotted together. Jim curled his hand around Spock’s, loving the warmth and solidity of the gesture, loving it more when Spock mimicked him.

            It was like that for a long moment, past the climax of the movie, heading toward the end, and Jim so wished to make his move. It was ruined when Spock pulled his hand from Jim’s. He worked hard to suppress a sigh, worked hard to not act as disappointed as he was.

            Until, that is, Spock positioned his arm across his shoulders, first gripping then sitting lax. Jim could feel Spock breathing against his side, he could feel the thudding of his heart, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Turning his head, he lay a gentle kiss to Spock’s cheek, lifting his hand to thread his fingers with Spock’s once more.

            Spock’s breath was hot against his cheek for a moment, the moment it took for him to work up the resolve needed to lean in and give Jim a reciprocal kiss, although a fair touch gentler, light and almost not there. Still, Jim could feel it long after Spock pulled away.

            For some time, the movie was forgotten in favor of passing such kisses back and forth and Jim felt like such a teenager. He pondered for a moment if Spock had ever had anything like this when he was a teenager. The way he responded, the gentle nature behind his kisses and the nerves that Jim felt in him, pointed toward a very harsh negative.

            When they both turned their heads at the same time, looked each other in the eyes and drew closer, until it was close enough and they were kissing properly this time, Jim was glad he had chosen seats in the back, although this wasn’t necessarily what he had planned. As Spock’s lips drew across his, more confident than the first time, his tongue reaching out and parting Jim’s lips, Jim couldn’t give a damn. It was happening and he was lost in the moment.

            As suddenly as it began, it was over, both of them left panting and red in the face. Jim couldn’t help his smile, blinding in the dim of the theater.

            “Hey, beautiful.” Jim mumbled against his lips.

            “Hello.” Spock whispered, his voice cracking and rough. “Beautiful.”

            “Movie’s over.”

            “Yes.”

            The credits rolled past, Jim and Spock sitting close, cuddled against each other. Jim had taken Spock’s hand again, rubbing his thumb over the back of Spock’s hand. Occasionally Spock would tilt his head to the side, kissing at Jim’s cheek, at the curve of his smile. He had only been inebriated on a few occasions, few and far between, but at the moment the feeling was similar.

            Reluctantly, they stood at the end of the movie, leaving the theater with the rest of the movie goers. The temperature had dropped drastically, the night air hitting their warm bodies and causing both of them to shiver. Spock had requested an Uber for the ride home, which was waiting for him at the curb. He could see the driver’s eyes on the two of them and pulled back from Jim when he leaned in for a kiss.

            “Sorry, didn’t mean to push.” Jim said, a hand coming out to touch at Spock’s elbow.

            “It is not that.” Spock looked back to the driver. Jim followed his eyes, a knowing smile on his face. Without preamble, to prevent himself from backing out, Spock leaned forward into Jim’s space, meeting him hallway – again – and sharing a short kiss.

            “I must leave. My driver is waiting.”

            “Okay. I’ll talk to you later. We’ll meet up sooner this time.”

            Spock nodded, pulling away from Jim, giving him a final wave from the back seat of the car.

            “Cute guy.” The driver commented, smiling to Spock in the rear-view mirror.

            “Indeed.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Work. School. Finals. Finding a place to live. Oy vey.

            Quaint though it was, Spock’s apartment was a sanctuary from what was otherwise a harsh world. At one point in his life, the sanctuary was his father’s library, filled with books and printed works, art and a plush couch with equally plush pillows where Spock would lose himself in words on pages. Now, as he sat on the couch his mother helped him pick out, with pillows barrowed from his bedroom and a thick throw the length of his body, he contemplated the sanctuary he had created for himself. In San Francisco, so far from his childhood home, so far from the familiar smells and sounds and life, he had tried to recreate that feeling.

            At times, he felt as if he had succeeded. Although his library was much smaller, the shelves occupying only one wall of his small living room, and his collection of works not near as diverse as his fathers, the ambience was much the same. Smells, barrowed from home via way of incense and candles, flitted through the air and tickled at his memories.

            All around him were touches of home he had hardly noticed when he had initially placed them there. Now they had become so integral that to lose them would be to lose a piece of comfort. The design was neither busy nor industrial. All needed aspects of home life were present: a couch, a TV, a dining room table and chairs. Yet on shelves alongside the books were things not needed, things that were entirely sentimental. Pictures, objects from his travels, rocks that appealed to him, a select amount of artwork.

            All around him was a home that so few people had ever been privy to. His mother and father had visited twice. Christopher Pike had offered to bring Spock food once when he had found himself sick and had sat to watch TV with Spock until Spock fell asleep on the couch. Nyota had spent many nights in his bed, especially when they were both finding themselves in their relationship.

            Perhaps it was her, Spock thought, that made him reluctant to allow another individual in. While he held no ill-will toward Nyota and considered her a close and dear friend, it took a great deal to allow her into his home in the first place. Too many memories that flooded the rooms existed and he had spent far too many nights trying desperately to avoid them.

            These thoughts only sought to anger him, illogically and shamefully. He was not angry with her and would no longer think of her in a negative light. He had hardly thought of her as the one in the wrong. Rather, it was his own shortcomings that he blamed for the end of their relationship.

            To think of having Jim in his apartment, in his home, caused him a small amount of anxiety. It had been almost a week since their second date, with each of them occupied by both work and the other. Spock would anticipate a message from Jim daily and was no longer weary of starting a conversation. He had composed a mental list of questions to ask, posing them to Jim with any lag in conversation. Although, there was not much of a lag in conversation.

            It was not that Spock did not want Jim in his apartment as he was beginning to grow quite close to the man. A rudimentary level of trust existed between them and while Spock would still question Jim’s interest in him, he knew it to be illogical insecurities. Jim had given him no reason to distrust him. All interactions, the few that they shared, had been positive and had culminated to the beginnings of a relationship.

            It was this that frightened him with Jim. Thus far they had met only in public places, with the relative life around them to keep excessive pressure off their interactions. The world acted as a buffer and that buffer would not exist in the confines of his apartment. New memories would be made, and Spock was unsure if he would be able to deal with the aftermath should those memories too threaten to haunt him.

            Feeling out of place in his mind and needing of advice, Spock was relieved to note the time, excited by the commencement of plans that had been made days prior.

            “Mother,” Spock greeted, a rare, warm smile gracing his face. “It is pleasing to see you.”

            “You as well, Spock. I’m glad we were able to make this call happen. It’s hard, having you living so far away with the time differences. How has school been?”

            “School has been well. I trust your teaching is going well this semester?”

            “Very much so. I have so many amazing students this year. They’re all so eager to learn English and about other cultures.”

            “You say this yearly, however I am glad to hear of your enthusiasm. Your students are quite lucky to have you as a teacher and mentor. I think fondly on all that you have taught me. My fondness of reading especially. In fact, there is a bookstore that we should visit when next you are here.”

            “Of course, Spock. Have you made time for some light reading?”

            They spoke for some time about books, a subject both of them had found when Spock was a very young child. Amanda would sit on the couch, with Spock in her lap, reading aloud whatever she was working through at the time. Spock would sit there, eyes alight even at such a young age, absorbed in the sound of his mother’s voice, bubbling and cooing. It was a memory caught on video by Spock’s father, a memory his mother was fond of reliving. Spock was grateful to his father for this.

            As Spock grew, his mother would prompt him to read. It went far beyond developing his young mind. It went well beyond developing the bond between mother and child. It gave Spock an outlet in a world that seemed so intent upon breaking him.

            “I remember once, when you were about eight, and your father had you read one of his legal reports to him while he ate breakfast. He helped you sound out the words and gave you definitions when you asked. He was so proud that day.”

            “Did you ever visit father at his apartment when you were first dating?”

            “Well, yes. One of our first dates he asked me over so that he could cook for me. We sat on the couch and listened to music after. He’d hate for me to tell you this, but he asked me to dance with him. He’s a horrible dancer.”

            “And did father visit your apartment?”

            “I actually lived in a house with several other girls at the time. It was rather crowded. But, yes, he came over and we ordered take out and sat on my bed and ate. It wasn’t near as romantic as I’d have liked it to be. But I think it made me love him more. He had this nice, posh apartment and I had a room with an old bed and not much else. He didn’t care.” Spock could imagine the smile on Amanda’s face. “Why do you ask?”

            Here Spock hesitated. If he spoke to his mother of Jim now, only to have their relationship deteriorate at a later point, he would then have to inform his mother of such. Doing so, even in theory, was enough for him to wish to lie.

            Instead, he did as he always did. He spoke the truth to her and sought out her counsel. “There is an individual that I have been talking with, have gone on a few dates with, and now I believe I should invite to dine here, at my apartment. As another date.”

            “Does this woman have a name?”

            “This man does,” Spock paused a moment, “Jim.”

            “Oh.”

            There was silence on the line.

            “Mother?”

            “He sounds quite wonderful, to get your attention. I assume he’s good to you?”

            “It does not bother you?”

            “No, Spock. It does not bother me. It’s a bit of a surprise but I’ve always somewhat known that you were interested in men.”

            Spock could not think of any instance in which he would have given his mother such an impression. He had not dated in his youth, had hardly had friends aside from the few that would join him in studying – he doubted, now, that such ‘friends’ counted. His mother had never asked after his interests or included men in the talk that she had given him over sex; although that may have been due to the awkwardness of the conversation as it was, without needing to add the aspect of homosexual relationships.

            As if reading his mind, Amanda said, “A mother knows dear. Tell me about him?”

            Spock did. He told his mother of the unknown messages, the unknown calls that he felt compelled to answer. He told her of the ordeal when exchanging pictures and his trouble with taking a picture to send. When they had finally exchanged pictures, they flew easily between them. So did the messages, and he shared with her a few of them.

            “I wanted to ask a question specifically. If I may?”

            “Spock, dear, you can ask me any question you’d like.”

            “Do you think it foolish for me to invite Jim over, having only known him for two months?”

            “Not at all. I knew your father for a week before he invited me over. It’s all about personal comfort, Spock. If you’re uncomfortable with having him over, for whatever reason, then there should be no pressure. If he does pressure you, and you tell him of your unease and he persists, then I would rethink this man. Pressure doesn’t belong in a relationship, especially if you’ve made it clear why you’d refuse.”

            As always, his mother gave exceptional advice. While the advice might have been obvious, something after the fact, it was put in such a way that Spock could relate to it. Too often, the advice of others came with a confusion that Spock could not overcome, could not bypass to fully see the advice for what it was. All too often, Spock would get caught up in the words and the meaning. That did not often happen with his mother.

            “Does father know of my sexuality?”

            “I’m honestly not sure. Would you like for me to ask him? I can do it discreetly?”

            Spock thought on this for a moment. While it would answer some questions he had about his father, it would not answer enough for what it was worth. His knowing would only prove to open up more questions, to have those searching eyes and that look that veiled some level of disappointment on him once again.

            “That is unnecessary. Should you wish to, I will not prevent you. However, should father not agree with my decision, I would prefer not to know. He disagrees with me quite frequently and I do not desire to give him anything else.”

            “Spock, you know he loves you and supports you. He doesn’t always understand you but he does try. I doubt he would be intentionally unsupportive.”

            “Intentionally or not.”

            “I understand. Let’s not talk about this. What would you do with Jim while he’s over?”

            “I thought to cook for him. It seems cliché, I suppose but it is tried and true. He enjoys Italian and while I do not, not necessarily, I do have a recipe that looks appealing. Aside from that, I am not sure. Jim is far more adept at planning activities and at holding conversation than I am.”

            “You can be so self-deprecating sometimes, Spock.” Amanda’s tone was light but Spock felt scolded all the same. “You’re perfectly fine at conversation. I enjoy ours every time. You’re witty and smart and fun to be around. You have so much to offer. You seem to think highly of Jim so far. He has to be attracted to something, right?”

            “You say that because you are my mother. It is in your job description.”

            “See, witty?” Amanda all but squealed. “So, yes, part of it is because I’m your mother. But the other part is because someone would have to be blind to not see you. All of you.”

            Spock had no response, so he sat silent. His mother was proficient at rendering Spock silent. She did so frequently in his childhood, not out of spite or as an act of suppression. Amanda welcomed open and free communication, regardless the topic, and held true to that principal even when Spock could see it was difficult for her. Therefore, his mother did not leave him speechless in a negative way. She did so, so that he might come to his own conclusions, in his own mind, without outside disturbances.

            “Spock, your father is home. Would you like to speak with him?”

            “Not at the moment no. I actually have some school related matters to attend to. Please give him my regards.”

            Amanda was also wise enough to know when to not push. “Okay, Spock. Have a good evening and please let me know how your date goes?”

            “Of course, mother. I love you.”


	12. Chapter 12

            Jim wasn’t much to postpone anything, he really wasn’t. He was the type to jump headlong into any problem, to go guns blazing and smile flashing. Charisma at his fists and a bite to his words that would leave anyone standing at attention. He commanded any room he walked into and no one had the nerve or want to deny him that. He did all of that with a kindness, with a gentleness that kept others coming around and kept them around.

            So the Jim standing in front of the full length mirror, with the blue shirt in one hand and the black in the other, with a look of almost panic on his face, wasn’t the Jim that usually graced the bars and dives and other social lights. This Jim that couldn’t decide between a shirt, that had already worked through all the jeans he owned, that now stood naked aside from his boxers and socks, wasn’t the Jim he had worked so hard to become. Hell, even the boxers and socks seemed all wrong.

            Frustrated, Jim threw the shirts to his bed, disinclined to care how wrinkled they may become, and turned to his closet. Chewing his lip, Jim thought to maybe raid Bone’s clothes. That was doomed to failure, well before the plan could even be fully made. Growing ever more frustrated, Jim sat at the end of his bed, his shirts lost beneath him.

            On their first date, it was simple enough. He wanted to be comfortable and there wasn’t anything more comfortable than a pair of well-worn jeans and a soft cotton shirt. The same could be said for their movie date. Simple was always best and it’s what Jim found himself constantly falling back on.

            This time, however, was very different. This time he would be stepping into Spock’s world. Jim had plenty of experience with small dives, with movie theaters, with walks around the park. That territory was all very familiar and comfortable to Jim. He wouldn’t go so far to say he was sure he’d be uncomfortable at Spock’s apartment. He wasn’t so much worried about himself; he was worried about Spock.

            He was worried about how Spock would look at him. If Spock looked at him with that uncomfortable glint to his eyes, his very expressive eyes, Jim wouldn’t know how to backtrack. And it would all be because of the clothes he wore.

            Growling, Jim did what he was best at. He said fuck it, threw it to the wind, and went with comfortable.

            The uber ride to Spock’s apartment was short. He lived a lot closer than Jim realized, in a part of town that Jim actually knew. It was bit of a dead give away though: Jim knew the apartment complexes were only rented out to students and other faculty of the university. By virtue Jim knew where Spock worked, where he studied. But Spock had asked for some level of secrecy in that regard so Jim wouldn’t bring it up.

            Spock’s apartment building was innocuous enough. Simple, with each unit seeming to have a private balcony. Some were adorned with plants, with patio furniture, with other decorative items. Some were depressingly bare. A smile gracing his lips, Jim wondered which one belonged to Spock. He’d find out soon enough.

            The lobby was open to all, with mailboxes lining one wall and fake plants framing a bench on the other. Nearest the door was a call system, the tenant’s names next to their corresponding unit number. His finger pressed against the smooth covering, Jim scrolled down the row, mouthing out names as he went. Spock’s name was easy enough to find, easy enough to work his mouth around. His last name, however, left Jim gaping. He’d definitely have to ask about that.

            Pressing the button, Jim waited for Spock to answer or to buzz him in. A moment became two and then three and Jim, his face contorted, pressed the button again.

            “My apologies. How may I help you?” Spock’s voice was muffled, his tone a touch more clipped than Jim had become used to.

            “Hey, uh, it’s me.” Jim shifted his weight to his other foot, nodding and smiling to one of the other tenants as they walked past. “Wanna buzz me in?”

            “I will have to come meet you at the door, actually. The locking mechanism does not currently work. I have been told they will fix it shortly. Give me one moment and I will be down to let you in.”

            “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

            Jim stepped back, looking again at the list of names. Did Spock know any of his neighbors? He didn’t seem the overly social type. Didn’t seem like one who would go door to door and introduce himself or be interested in any ‘welcome to the building’ socials that were often put on. Spock seemed lonely. He seemed the type to be both simultaneously secure in his introverted nature and still longing for just so much, just the right amount, of human contact.

            He was the type at the bars that would stand back, drink in hand, taking small sips, eyes constantly on the movement of the room. Smiling shyly, small, almost ashamed at anything humorous. Leaning in to get a better look, but still far enough away so as to not be touched. With that look of longing that turned into a guarded, “No thank you, not tonight,” when asked if he wanted to join in.

            For all his boisterous nature, all his charm and smiles and touches, Jim was overwhelmed by loneliness. The only difference between the two men, was that Jim had an outlet. He could, whenever he wanted, have the courage to step into the conversation and join the activities. He didn’t have to stand back long to be noticed, or to make himself noticed. It was no issue for Jim to find that human contact as he needed it.

            Spock wasn’t awarded that same luxury. It hurt Jim to think of how lonely Spock must be.

            “Jim.” His name held all the wonder in the world when it slipped through Spock’s lips and Jim didn’t have to force the smile, the lopsided one that reached his eyes.

            He stepped forward, right into Spock’s space, placed his hand on Spock’s elbow, leaned in and paused just long enough to give him an out, before pressing their lips together. It wasn’t his imagination that Spock leaned into the touch or gasped into the kiss.

            It was short, more of a tease than anything, but it was enough that Spock seemed once again assured of Jim’s regard for him. Spock’s hands had landed at Jim’s chest, had worked their way to grasp gently at his neck. Now, nose to nose, Spock ducked his head, a light smile at his lips. Jim followed him. The angle wasn’t the best, and their lips didn’t meet perfectly, but the second kiss was just as assuring as the first.

            As if suddenly realizing where he was, Spock stepped back, one hand on Jim’s chest keeping him at arm’s length.

            “Please, follow me inside.” Spock turned, not waiting for an answer. “I have not lived here long and most of what I have has been purchased here. Only a few of the items are from before I moved here. Of course, I have all items one would expect to see in an apartment. However, I have been told that my apartment appears,” Spock paused, looking back over his shoulder at Jim, “unlived in.”

            “That makes no sense. Honestly, dude, how can you live somewhere but not live there? What makes something look unlived in?”

            Spock stepped into the elevator, pushing the button when Jim was situated. “I thought the same thing when they had first mentioned it. When I voiced my query, they did not have an acceptable answer. Given, however, that they have since visited my apartment and have not made the same comment, I am given to believe that it is now somehow more lived in that it was previously.”

            “Well, that’s good to hear. Wouldn’t be good for you to live somewhere that was unlived in.”

            “As roundabout as that statement is, I find myself agreeing.”

            Spock was facing away from Jim, his hands resting gently at the small of his back, the first and second digit of one hand looped around the thumb of the other. It was lazy in a way, like a very unprofessional parade rest. But it was the way that Jim had grown so used to seeing Spock stand. It was amazing, really, that after only seeing the man a small handful of times, Jim already knew the way Spock held his body. A flutter erupted in Jim’s chest at the thought that he so very dearly cared for this man, that he wanted so badly to make him happy.

            A small desperation arose and, stepping forward, Jim reached out and gently took one of Spock’s hands. Spock turned to look at him from the corner of his eye, allowing Jim to take his hand and twine their fingers together. Jim’s other hand came to snake around Spock’s front, resting lightly at his stomach, just above his belt. Pulling him back, Jim smiled at how easily Spock allowed himself to be manipulated. He smiled into the crook of Spock’s neck, smiled next to ear, next to his cheek.

            Spock brought both of his hands to his front. Jim, prepared to give him space, was surprised when Spock instead laced their fingers together, resting them again against his stomach and allowing Jim to take his weight.

            “I am not well versed in any of this. When you first showed me affection, I admit to having been very confused.” Jim rubbed his thumb against Spock’s stomach, silently willing him to continue. “Reading others and interpreting their body language and signals is not an easy task for me. At times, I feel as if I am missing something that others would see so easily. At others, I believe I create where there is nothing to create.”

            Hoping to prompt him, Jim nodded against Spock’s neck, mumbling a very soft, “I feel that.”

            “That first day, when you,” Spock was stopped in his speech as the elevator gave a slight shudder at reaching the fifth floor.

Dropping his hands, Spock moved out and down the hall, assured that Jim was following him. With his keys in hand, he hesitated before slowly turning the lock and pushing the door open. Stepping aside, Spock gestured for Jim to enter.

“Looks lived in to me.” Neat. Very neat. Not the type of neat that comes when someone desperately cleans the entire house just because guests are coming over. The pillows on the couch are off center and not freshly fluffed. There’s a laptop on the coffee table with a pile of papers on top, a pen beside them.

He could feel Spock watching him, the nervous energy from someone who would never admit to silently wanting another’s approval. Jim walked further into the space, taking in the kitchen on the right and the small dining area on the left. The bathroom door was open, the counterspace that he could see clean and orderly. There was another door, Spock’s bedroom he assumed, that was ajar but dark beyond that. The blinds on the farthest wall of the living room were closed.

Spock was at his heel, his hands held tightly behind his back. An entire wall was dedicated to bookshelves and a large TV. Jim scanned helplessly over all the book titles, barely able to take in the first before going to the next.

“You read?” He asked offhandedly, bent at the waist to read the titles on the lower shelves.

Spock let out a breath that Jim knew had spent far too much time in his lungs. He knew it was stale and hot and tasted off. “That is typically what one does with books, yes.”

Jim turned slowly, still bent at the waist with his hands on his knees, to smile up at Spock. He chuckled lightly, shaking his head. “Smartass,” he breathed, no bite to his words and Spock instantly melted into a relaxed slouch.

“The kitchen is this way. You are fond of Italian and I am in possession of a recipe that should appease us both. It is vegetarian of course but I am told hearty and filling.”

The two of them made their way to the kitchen, Spock continuing to the counter while Jim stopped at the door frame, leaning lazily against it.

“Sounds good to me. What’s it called?”

“Gnocchi alla vodka, with a fresh spring salad, and a pistachio tort dessert.”

“Vodka, huh? I’ve had gnocchi before. I really liked it. Potatoes are good in just about anything.”

A soft smile pulled at Spock’s lips as he retrieved the gnocchi he had made earlier in the day from the fridge, as well as the mushrooms and peas.

“To reduce the time this meal will take to cook, I prepped some of the ingredients beforehand. I have never made gnocchi before however I did taste the finished product. I believe it to be sufficient.”

“I’m sure it’ll taste great.”

Silence overtook them as Spock took a frying pan, added oil and started on browning the gnocchi. In a sauce pan, he began work on the vodka sauce. Jim could tell the bottle was new, small and probably something Spock bought after extensive research. Jim watched as Spock worked easily and methodically, his deft fingers taking care with the food. Nothing went unchecked, time was kept and the cooking seemed effortless.

Spock was beautiful as he cooked, possessing of a certain grace that Jim now realized was a given for the man.

When he was done plating, he handed one to Jim, gesturing to the dining table. He returned shortly with the salads and two wine glasses. Asking if he would like wine, Spock poured a liberal amount of something sweet and white into both of their glasses.

They were mostly silent as they ate, stealing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking and bumping feet under the table. At the end, Spock brought out the pistachio tort, already neatly plated and beautifully garnished.

Feeling devilish, and wanting to push Spock just a little, Jim took a small bite onto the end of his fork, holding it up and advancing it towards Spock’s lips. He kept eye contact, a lopsided smile daring Spock to resist him. For a moment, he thought Spock would; and then his lips parted, his tongue slid out, wrapped around the offered morsel and drew it in. He pulled back, bringing a hand to his mouth as he chewed. Jim could just see the hint of a smile behind the slender digits.

Satisfied, Jim allowed the remainder of the meal to pass in contented quiet.

He helped Spock wash the dishes. He took his hand, drawing him toward the couch, sitting with him as close as he dared. It was Spock, Jim found, that shifted closer. Spock that pressed his legs, his side against Jim. Spock that pulled Jim close, that molded their bodies against one another. For all his unease, all his nerves, it was Spock that was comfortable enough with Jim. And Jim felt his heart hammer against his side, felt his stomach erupt in flutters, felt his breath hitch and eyes slide closed. It was Spock and it was all Jim wanted.

 


End file.
